


Aléthia

by ceterisparibus



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: At least they try, Canon-Typical Violence, Communication, F/M, Honesty, Hurt/Comfort, JT's cool too he's just not in this as much, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Protective Dani Powell, Protective Gil Arroyo, Protective Siblings, Siblings, Stabbing, Whump, almost forgot, concussion, so like it could be worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27346258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: What does it say about Malcolm and Ainsley that it takes getting kidnapped together for them to regain the closeness they had as kids?
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell
Comments: 17
Kudos: 52
Collections: Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Final Posts





	1. Chapter 1

Malcolm

“Things have been better, then?” Gabrielle asks, dark eyes searching his face.

Malcolm nods easily. “Way better. Being on this team…it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.” With that, he launches into a description of their latest case. The details are confidential, but he tells her about how quickly he was able to build a profile and how readily not only Gil but also Dani and JT accepted his profile, using it to narrow down suspects and even direct their search. And he’d been _right_. He tells her about what happened when they finally confronted the suspect, armed with a Glock G19X; he tells her how Gil and Dani and JT held back to let him talk the suspect down until the suspect lowered his weapon instead of starting a firefight.

Gabrielle eyes him shrewdly. “You spent more time talking about your team than about your profile.”

He knows exactly where she’s going with this, and doesn’t bother to pretend otherwise. “They trust me, Gabrielle. They finally, really trust me.”

Her warm smile is its own kind of reward. (She spends too many of their sessions biting back frustration, or disappointment, or worry. Maybe her other clients wouldn’t notice, but he can read it all over her face.) “I’m glad. It’s what you deserve, Malcolm. And what about the other people in your life?”

He frowns. “Other…?”

“Your family,” she says—rather pointedly.

And, great, she’s already back to being disappointed in him. Well, Malcolm knew it couldn’t last. “They’re great. Excellent. Zero problems except for the fact that we’re all related to a serial killer, but we’re all kinda used to that by now, you know?”

Gabrielle leans forward over her crossed legs. “Zero problems?”

He should know by now, he really should, to tone down the sarcasm with her. She’s always searching for a hint that he’s accidentally _revealed_ something. Like a hawk above a field, waiting for a mouse to dart out from under cover. Except that the hawk would only swoop in for the mouse’s own good. Or so the hawk thinks, anyway.

He tries to think of something to say to divert her attention away from his family. He’d rather she dissect _him_ than pick apart Jessica and Ainsley and the permutations of dynamics between the three of them. “I mean, um…there was a bit of a conflict the other day because Ainsley brought up that she thinks cats are superior to dogs, and obviously I couldn’t let such a claim go uncontested…”

Gabrielle just raises an eyebrow at him until he trails off.

He shrugs weakly.

She purses her lips. “You know, Malcolm, I’m proud of you for coming into see me.”

Malcolm frowns. This feels like a trap. “You…are?”

“I’m proud of you for talking to me. Confronting your thoughts and feelings. Letting me help you untangle it all.” Then she tips her head to one side. “But.”

But.

“But our meetings, here in this room, are insulated.” She gestures around the place with its myriad oversized stuffed animals. “It’s a bubble. It’s not the same as working through those thoughts and feelings out in the real world.” Then she pauses.

Malcolm can see where he’s going with this, but he’s not going to help her get there. He stays stubbornly silent.

“Of course, I’m glad that you feel that your team is a safe place for you. Maybe now that you have them, you can afford to be more…honest…with your own family?”

Malcom’s eyebrows shoot up. “You think I’m dishonest?”

“I think you’re clever and good at deflecting,” she says immediately.

Well.

“I think you use humor as a defense mechanism.”

Right, they’ve been over that. Repeatedly.

“And I think your mother and sister are too afraid to disturb the precarious interactions between the three of you to push for a deeper conversation…assuming they even want to.”

Malcolm glares at the floor. “Assuming we even need to,” he mutters.

“You were _all_ traumatized by what happened,” Gabrielle says bluntly. “But have all of you faced up to that fact? Even if you have independently, have you ever faced up to that _together?_ ”

“Why should we?” he bursts out. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not, our family’s the height of dysfunctional, but—”

“It’s far from the height of dysfunctional,” Gabrielle cuts in. “The three of you clearly love each other and want the best for each other. The main area of dysfunction that I can see is how you never let your relationships go deep enough to actually work through your shared trauma. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”

Malcolm rubs at his forehead. “No, you’re right. We don’t really…talk about that stuff. We just all have our coping mechanisms, you know?”

Jessica drinks. Ainsley works. He solves murders.

Gabrielle softens her voice. “You know, coping mechanisms are a bit of a misnomer.”

“How so?”

“They’re not enough. They might help you get by from day to day, but they don’t help you grow. Not individually, and not with your mother or sister. At _best_ , they keep you from falling backwards; they don’t help you move forward.”

Malcolm sighs.

“What is it?”

“I’m just, um…” He flashes a forced smile, like, _you understand_. “I’m not sure any of us are really ready for that kind of…conversation. You know?”

Gabrielle just looks at him for a while. Profiling him in her own way. Then she leans back in her seat. “Maybe not.”

~

Jessica spared no expense. And Malcolm expected no different. It’s his mother, after all. And even though she’s attended plenty of parties as a Whitly, rebuilding her reputation and her place in the socialite world, this is the first party _she’s_ thrown since…well, her husband was arrested for murdering twenty-three people.

Anyway, she went all out. The party spreads through the whole first floor of the house. There’s live music, in one room, with speakers set up in the others, and everywhere you look are tables and tables of food—all expensive and undoubtedly delicious and, as far as Malcolm’s concerned, inedible. No one else seems to mind; people eat as they talk (with voices raised over the live band set up in a corner of the foyer), eat as they laugh, eat as they pretend to dance in weird, shimmy-steps since there’s no actual dance floor. The food is replaced as quickly as it disappears.

Unfortunately, the whole situation is…not exactly Malcolm’s happy place. He loves people, but he’s not…what’s the word, _good_ with them. Long experience has taught him that. Okay, actually, he’s great with people: just in a very, very narrow capacity. For example: give him five minutes, maybe ten, with each person in the room, and he’ll tell you which are happy to be there and which are just putting in face time, which are excited to support Jessica and which are morbidly curious to see how the ex-wife of a serial killer throws a party.

He can also make a start at guessing which of them are depressed, which have anxiety, which are avoidant and which are borderlines. He can maybe even identify any psychopaths in the room, although of course it depends on how skilled they are at pretending to share everyone else’s interests and emotions.

Not that it would be ethical of him to run around diagnosing people. But. It’s a fun game to play, and you never can know when the information might be useful.

There is, of course, one major problem with attending his mother’s party: the fact that he’s worked so hard to separate his name from the one she’s chosen to keep and reclaim. (He wonders if it bothers her, sometimes. He thinks she understands. Or, at least, he thinks she accepts that she has her coping mechanisms, and he has his.) He might not have cared if Jessica’s friends (or acquaintances, or whatever they are) realized that Malcolm Bright used to be Malcolm Whitly—after all, the most important people in his life all already know—but then he thinks about the faces of the cops he works with at the NYPD. Not his direct colleagues, not even his friends, but still. They’re people who need to respect his judgment, whenever they find out a lead came from him. And, frankly, he’d rather they not whisper about him behind his back. He got enough of that in…the rest of his life.

So mostly, Malcolm just sticks to the sidelines. He’s got a drink one hand, his other hand in his pocket, trying not to get bored. He people-watches, tries to guess at the things that would normally only be evident through conversation. It’s okay as far as entertainment goes, although it’s frustrating not to be able to test his theories.

Except for that one lady who’s an alcoholic. That one’s pretty obvious.

And except for Dani. She’s at the party because Jessica thinks Dani is one of the few people who can keep Malcolm out of trouble. Which is true. Even more so now that they’re dating. Not that they’ve told anyone; Dani doesn’t want that kind of pressure. Malcolm can’t say he blames her.

(Even though he desperately wants to reach the point when he can shout from every metaphorical and physical rooftop in New York City about how much he loves her.)

Anyway, he’s leaning against the wall, randomly taking sips of his drink, when someone suddenly bumps into him from the left. It’s Ainsley skidding up against him, all intentional, her red dress swishing around her knees, grinning at him. “Hey, bro!”

He raises his eyebrows at her. “Bro? Really?”

“Bro. Brosef. Broheim. How many ways are there to claim you as my sibling?”

“I’d rather you just didn’t,” he says, but he’s smiling. He can’t help it; she’s infectious like that.

“Aw, you wound me.” She pouts, just to drive it home, and loops her arm through his. “So, how many crazy people have you identified?”

“They’re not crazy. They just…need help.”

“Uh-huh. So politically correct.”

He frowns a little. She’s joking, but she sounds like Martin when she says stuff like that.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Oh, lighten _up_. Anyway, there’s someone who wants to meet you.” She pulls at his arm.

“Come on,” he protests. “You know that never ends well.”

She glances back over her shoulder at him; her eyes are bright. “It’ll be _fine_. You’ve got me to protect you.”

Malcolm sighs theatrically.

“C’mon!” She tugs on him again, and this time he allows her to peel him away from the wall. She drags him across the party, heels click-clacking ahead of him, dodging people talking and even a few doing that weird shimmy-dancing thing over to where Jessica is standing by one of the many tables of hors d’ouvers, talking to a man.

And something about it raises little red flags in Malcolm’s mind. He’s not sure what it is, exactly. Maybe the fact that Jessica’s talking to just one person, when she should be in a group of people? It would be one thing if she were flirting, but he knows what that looks like (no matter how much he wishes he didn’t), and this isn’t that. She’s too pressed up against the table, for one thing—dangerously close to getting sticky sauce on her pale blue dress. And she’s wearing that fake, tight smile. The one she wore in the prison, when she snuck in on orders to kill Martin.

Not that he thinks she’s planning on killing anyone right now, probably. She’s just stressed; that’s the point.

He glances at Ainsley, wondering if she had some ulterior motive for bringing him over here. Her face gives away nothing, and that gives away everything. It’s her poker face, the one she uses in front of the camera. Which means she _definitely_ has an ulterior motive right now.

“Malcolm!” Jessica’s not as good as her daughter; her relief is written all over her face. (Sometimes Malcolm wonders how she climbed so high on the social ladders when she wears her heart on her sleeve too much to disguise things, like whether she secretly hates someone.) “Ben, have you met my son?”

The man turns around, for the first time giving Malcolm a clear view of his face. He’s Caucasian, probably mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a beard and mustache that mostly obscures his mouth; his smile disappears under all the scruff.

It doesn’t reach his eyes, though. His hands aren’t in his pockets, nor do they hang loosely; he clasps them together; he’s playing (no, fidgeting) with his wedding ring. A self-pacifying gesture? That plus the way he shifts his weight back and forth tells Malcolm that he’s not as calm as he’s trying to seem. He’s nervous. Maybe even agitated.

Malcolm narrows his eyes, not caring if it’s not polite. What is going on here?

“Ben,” the man says, and sticks out his right hand. He doesn’t offer a last name.

Malcolm shakes. Ben’s hand is sweaty, his grip too tight. Malcolm wants to wipe his own hand off on his slacks after they’ve shaken. “Malcolm,” he says, pointedly not giving a last name either.

“You know, it’s funny,” Ben says, not sounding like anything is funny at all, “it’s not hard to hear about your mother. All her charity work, you know.” He flashes a smile at Jessica; it’s so fake that Malcolm’s almost offended. “And your sister, well, I see her face every morning now while I’m getting ready for work.” He aims a smile at Ainsley this time, and a chill runs down Malcolm’s spine because this time it isn’t fake; it’s genuine—and predatorial. Ben turns back to Malcolm, and now the smile is stiff. “You, though…”

It takes Malcolm a beat to realize that Ben doesn’t plan on finishing that sentence, that he’s waiting on Malcolm to reply. Malcolm shrugs, keeping his eyes on Ben’s. “Let’s just say I’m not quite as successful.”

“No job?” Ben inquires, unblinking.

As a rule, Malcolm prefers not to lie. For one thing, most people can usually tell, at least at some level, and it’s harder to profile someone who knows they’re being deceived. More importantly, though, it makes his skin itch like the more he copies his father’s tactics, the more he becomes like him.

Sometimes, though, lies are necessary. “No job,” he says, and nods at Jessica, spreading his hands pseudo-apologetically. “I know, I know. Privileged.”

“Very,” Ben says, upper lip twitching in the barest hint of a sneer before his expression is wiped perfectly neutral. “Well, are you enjoying the party?”

“I am.” Malcolm studies his face. “Are you?”

Ben slides his hand back into his pocket. “I’ve gotten what I came for. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Whitly.”

Malcolm’s stomach flips.

Ben turns towards Ainsley and Jessica, nods at each of them and says their names, and then he’s wandering away, disappearing among the rest of the attendees.

The instant he’s gone, Jessica is clutching Malcolm’s arm. “Something was off about him, wasn’t there?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm says, and ignores Ainsley’s triumphant little hiss of, “ _I knew it_.” He keeps his eyes on the party, looking for the second Ben reemerges. “I just don’t know what.”

~

Malcolm’s enjoyment of the party increases substantially when Dani slips up behind him, looking dazzling in her dark, navy blue dress. (He can’t quite get over the fact that she dressed up not to go undercover but just to go out with him. Even if she won’t admit to anyone that she’s going out with him just yet.) There’s no one around that they know, which must be why she feels comfortable brushing her hand over his arm. He doesn’t try to hold her hand, though. Physical touch, at least in public, is best left to her to initiate. He knows that, even though he isn’t really happy about it. (Not that he’s told her that.)

He contents himself with a quiet, “Hey.”

“Enjoying the party?” she asks, giving him an askance glance that tells him she knows _exactly_ how much he wishes he were somewhere else.

He shrugs. “Rather be chasing a serial killer.”

“You gotta admit, the food here is better,” she points out.

“Not necessarily,” he argues. “Chasing a serial killer could involve infiltrating fancy parties. Which means stealing fancy food.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, but it’s better than stakeout food, at least.”

“…Fair,” he admits. If he wanted to, he could keep arguing. He’s pretty sure he could beat Dani in any argument if he tried. But he knows that just because he’s good at arguing doesn’t mean he’s always _right_. More than that, he knows that she does not actually enjoy debating just for the sake of it. Being with her means tempering his impulse to always make his point. She’s worth it.

And he’s rewarded a second later when her eyes dart down and to the side, a sure sign that she’s about to say something romantic that she isn’t brave enough to say while making eye contact. “Besides,” she says, forced casualness in her tone, “the company in a stakeout would be better.”

He cocks his head. “Would it?”

“I mean, fewer random rich people.”

“I’m a rich person,” he can’t help but remind her.

“Not a random one, though.”

Ah. He thrills inside, from his toes up to his chest. “Are you suggesting that I’m on this hypothetical stakeout with you?”

“Obviously,” she says, and sneaks a glance at him, accidentally makes eye contact. And that’s it, she’s pulling away, rolling her eyes at herself for getting caught being sentimental.

He feels a pang, but he doesn’t push. She knows where he stands; has known since he asked her out when they were in the middle of a firefight.

Well, no. It’s possible she assumed that was nothing more than the result of adrenaline.

But she’s known since he stayed late at the precinct, probably. To be fair, he always stays late at the precinct. But two weeks ago, he stayed late at the precinct for no reason other than to ask her out again.

She said yes.

Anyway.

Malcolm watches her saunter off, then sighs and turns around, deciding to use the bathroom. Not so much because he needs to but because it’s a nice place to go to get a break from all the people.

Just as he’s coming back out about five minutes later, all the lights in the entire house shut off.

Several things shatter; voices raise, asking what’s going on. People mutter ideas; others demand better explanations. Some woman is swearing because she spilled something on her shoes. People pull out their phones; little beacons of light appear around the party. Several voices call for Jessica.

Malcolm shoves his hand in his pocket and whips out his phone. No time to hunt for the flashlight app, but the screen itself is bright enough to show him Ben’s face, twisted like a Halloween mask, coming straight towards him. Malcolm stumbles back and thrusts out his other hand, driving his heel into Ben’s chin; Ben’s head snaps back before Malcolm can figure out if Ben is actually the bad guy here.

But Malcolm’s instincts were right. He doesn’t see it, doesn’t hear it, but he feels the sudden white-hot fire slash across his side. He drops his phone in shock and the next thing he knows, something heavy crashes into the side of his head and everything goes black.

~

Gil

When the lights shut out, Gil is one of the few people not yelling. Rich people, so easily panicked. True, he’s a little surprised that Jessica’s fancy apartment would lose power, but this is New York. Stranger things have happened.

He immediately ignites the flashlight app on his phone and heads straight for the breaker room, weaving his way past distraught guests yelling and crying because they’re confuse and scared and because some of them spilled fancy drinks on their fancy clothes. Gil tries to feel sympathetic. Mostly, he’s just annoyed that the breaker room is so far away.

But when he finally gets to the breaker room, sweeping the beam of light over the controls, he realizes something is very wrong. The power didn’t just go out—someone came down here and manually shut it off.

And Jessica is many things, but a prankster is not one of them. Whatever happened here was against her will. From this point on, Gil would be moving forward with the assumption that a crime was underway.


	2. Chapter 2

Gil

Gil restores the lights as he calls Dani’s number. JT isn’t at this party, he had family commitments, but Dani somehow got an invitation. More shocking is the fact that she agreed to _come_. Gil has never known her to enjoy hanging out with rich people. Maybe she wants the free food? Or maybe the detective in her is simply looking for more insight into the Whitley family now that Gil’s team has gotten so entangled with them.

Whatever the reason, Gil is just glad she’s on-scene when she picks up. “Gil?” she asks, voice coming through calm and steady despite the chaos if hysterical rich people in the background.

“I’m in the breaker room,” Gil reports immediately, already heading back out into the hallway. “Someone shut off the power. Do you see any signs of a crime?” If there’s a crime, Gil can justify locking the place down, no one in or out. At least for a short length of time.

“One second.” Dani’s voice and breathing get muted, like she’s lowered the phone to dodge through the crowds. Gil’s halfway down the hallway when her voice is in his ear again: “Gil. Gil, I found blood. On the floor. It’s just splatters, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Whose blood?” Gil demands, taking the stairs up to the main level two at a time.

“No idea.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Not yet, anyway. “Lock it down,” he orders. “Get the staff to help.”

“On it,” she says crisply, and hangs up.

Damn good detective, Dani Powell.

By the time Gil makes it to the lobby with the party, he sees immediately that Dani’s been at work. There are members of Jessica’s staff poised at every exit, and the partygoers are standing in wary clusters. The hysteria has died down now that people have the sense that someone is in charge and knows what they’re doing.

(Ha. But Gil can pretend.)

He sees Dani in front of the main doors, saying something hushed but authoritative to an angry-looking guest. Gil heads straight for her, but he’s intercepted by none other than Jessica, who comes blazing towards him with fear and fury warring on her face.

“What happened?” she demands, like he’s supposed to know.

Well, he does know, but only in part, and he knows his answer won’t satisfy her. “Someone cut the power in your breaker room.”

Her eyes widen. “Someone did this on purpose?”

“Which is why no one is leaving,” Gil says, jerking his chin at Dani.

She follows his eyes and claps a hand to her mouth and seems to shift her priorities. “Doesn’t this all seem…a little serious? What if it’s just a prank?”

Gripping her arm, he pulls her a little closer and lowers his voice. “Dani found blood on the floor. We don’t know whose it is or how it got there, but I’m worried there was some kind of assault.”

She pales. “Who?”

“We don’t know yet.” He hesitates. “The fact that no one is running around saying that they’re injured makes me wonder if the injured party is still here. If you want to help, you can see if anyone’s missing.”

“You think they went to the hospital?” she asks hopefully.

He hates to crush that hope. “Maybe,” he says carefully.

She, of course, sees right through him. “You think whoever did this took them? Is this a _kidnapping?_ ”

“I don’t know.” He squeezes her arm. “But we’ll find out. Don’t worry, Jess. Just…have a look around, and tell me or Detective Powell what you find.”

She nods, determination settling into her gaze, and turns away.

“Wait, Jess!” He steps back into her space once more, resisting the temptation to tuck her hair back behind her ears or do something else to comfort her. “Listen. Whoever did this, they might be gone. But…we can’t know that for sure.”

He sees his meaning hit her; she darts a glance over her shoulder.

He brushes his hand under her chin, turning her face towards him. “It’ll be all right. Yell if you need help, and I’ll be right there. Just…try not to talk to anyone, all right? All we need from you is to know if anyone’s missing. That’s it. You understand?”

She takes a quick breath, sets her shoulders back, and nods. “I’ll tell you what I find.”

“Thank you, Jess.” What he wants is to put her somewhere safe while he solves this for her. But he knows she’d never be happy with that. Whether it’s raising her kids on her own or donating to charities or throwing parties or just rebuilding her life after learning she married a serial killer, Jessica Whitley is one thing: self-sufficient.

She searches his gaze, opens her mouth like she wants to say something, then spins around and takes off into the crowd, slipping smoothly around her guests, deflecting their questions with just a word or two as she moves on. Gil accidentally spends a second watching her; then he gives his head a sharp shake to clear it and heads over to Dani.

“Jessica say anything?” Dani asks, eyes scanning the room. She’s already dealt with whoever was bothering her, and now she’s standing at the ready, waiting for more trouble.

“No. She’s looking for who might be missing now.” Speaking of which, there’s a twist of anxiety low in his stomach. Malcolm’s at this party, and Gil would’ve expected the kid to be here by now, hovering at Gil’s shoulder, asking questions and sharing his profiles unsolicited, barely able to conceal his excitement that a crime is happening.

“You seen Bright?” Dani asks, still not looking at Gil.

“…No,” Gil says reluctantly. “He’s probably…talking.”

Dani doesn’t look convinced.

Having someone else notice Malcolm’s absence makes Gil feel less like he’s letting his relationship with the kid cloud his judgment. Making up his mind, he pulls his phone out and punches in Malcolm’s number.

The first thing he notices is that he doesn’t hear any ringing around him.

Well, it’s a big house, and it’s not exactly silent.

But then it keeps ringing in his ear. And ringing. And ringing.

Malcolm doesn’t pick up.

Dani can’t hide the concern on her face. “Bright’s not answering?”

“No.” Gil lowers the phone, frowning. “I’m gonna sweep the place, keep calling, see if I hear his phone anywhere.”

Dani takes a small step forward. “No, I’ll look.”

“Watch the door,” Gil snaps, a bit harsher than he meant. He tries to soften his voice. “If there’s a hostile still here, we can’t let them get out.”

Her expression darkens and she doesn’t immediately agree.

Gil frowns. It’s not like her to resist orders. He can’t help thinking of the turf war case, when she directly disobeyed his command to go undercover, all to help a suspect. Because the suspect was someone she cared about.

Huh. He hadn’t gotten the impression she was so attached to Malcolm.

“Dani,” he repeats.

Her expression clears, turns into something blank. “All right, yeah. I’ll watch the door. Tell me if you find him.”

Giving her one last, suspicious look, Gil nods. “Where’s the blood?”

She points. “By the bathroom.”

“I’ll make sure it no one touches it,” he says, and heads in that direction, already hitting the redial button.

No answer from Malcolm.

The blood is much easier to find than his kid. There’s not a lot, only a few droplets on the floor, which probably explains why no one has interfered with it yet, but Gil’s trained eye notices immediately. Crouching down, he snaps a few pictures with his phone, just in case. There’s one of Jessica’s staff nearby, guarding a door leading out to the patio; Gil waves the man over.

“Sir?” the man inquires.

“I need cotton swabs and a plastic bag,” Gil says, and flashes his badge to cut off any questions.

The man’s eyes widen; he nods hastily and hurries off, returning about three minutes later (in which time Gil called Malcolm twice more and got nothing; the twist of anxiety in his gut has turned into a rock). Gil carefully secures several swabs of blood in the plastic baggie.

“Now,” he says, sealing the baggie, “can you make sure no one touches this blood while guarding that door?”

The man nods again; he seems afraid to actually say anything.

Gil doesn’t care. “Good,” he says simply, and takes off. First stop is to deposit the baggies in the refrigerator to prevent degradation of the sample; he’s not an expert on forensics or evidence collection, but he knows that much.

Next step: call dispatch.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a neutral voice inquires.

“This is Lieutenant Gil Arroyo of the NYPD,” Gil explains immediately. “I need available units at Jessica Whitley’s apartment. We have suspicious activity, including bloodstains.”

“Ambulance?” the voice asks.

“No need for one yet; I can’t find whoever’s injured. I just need backup.” He gives the address.

“Ten-four, Lieutenant,” the voice says. “Backup on its way.”

“Thanks.” Gil hangs up, and returns to his original mission: verify Malcolm Bright’s location.

Or, more realistically: verify that Malcolm Bright isn’t here.

He circles each room of the party, listening as Malcolm’s phone rings and rings in his ear (and keeping an eye out for any signs of forced entry; he finds nothing suspicious). He doesn’t hear the echo of it anywhere else. Worst, Malcolm never answers.

Gil has already concluded beyond a reasonable doubt that his kid is no longer in the house long before he finishes looking. But he tells himself not to jump to his conclusions. Malcolm isn’t really a party person. Maybe he went home.

To…sleep.

No, that can’t be it.

To…chase a bad guy?

That, unfortunately, is much more likely. But that doesn’t explain why Malcolm isn’t _answering his phone_.

By the time he’s looped through all the public areas of the house, the rest of the partygoers are getting antsy. Agitated. As far as Gil can tell, none of them have any idea what happened when the lights shut out, and now that the shock is wearing off, they’re tired of being kept in one place.

Well, tough. Still, Gil figures it’s best to let them know what’s happening. At least that way, they can get pissed off at him instead of at Jessica. She’s worked hard enough at restoring her name; he doesn’t want it getting dragged through the mud again because of police procedure.

So he grabs a microphone, ignoring the stilted protests from the musicians, and goes to stand next to the front door. “Attention!” he calls. “I need everyone’s attention!”

A hundred eyes snap towards him.

In another circumstance, Gil would feel uncomfortable. He doesn’t belong with these people, and they know it as well as he does. But he’s a lieutenant, and this whole exorbitant party has become a crime scene.

So in fact, he’s in his element. “My name is Lieutenant Gil Arroyo with the NYPD,” he announces, “and I have reason to suspect that a crime took place here, just a few minutes ago.”

Cue shocked glances and a flurry of whispers.

He gives them a few seconds; when they don’t silence on their own, he raises his voice over them. “Listen!”

That gets their attention again.

“Listen,” he repeats. “There’s no reason to panic, but I need you all to know that you can’t leave this building. I will be—”

“That’s bullshit!” some angry man yells, white hair frizzing. “I’m not staying here if there’s a psycho!”

Well, Gil hadn’t really expected “there’s no reason to panic” to actually prevent them from panicking. He raises his voice even louder: “There’s no indication that the criminal is still in the building. However, we have to be sure. I need all of you to do three things for me: first, stay here and stay calm. Second, tell me if you see anything suspicious. Third…” He pauses. “Third, stay away from the bathroom by the kitchen.”

A suspicious silence.

Then.

“Why?” someone calls.

Gil shrugs like it’s not anything to be too worried about. “Some blood splatters were discovered. I need them to remain untouched until forensics gets here.”

This goes over like a hurricane warning. When enough people are whispering, it sounds like a roar even at a low volume. This is what it sounds like now.

“Everyone!” Gil yells. “It will be fine. The NYPD will be here shortly, and in the meantime, one of my best detectives is already here.” He points at Dani, knowing full well that she will murder him for making her a target to this mob of angry, rich partiers. “That’s Detective Powell over there. You can bring any questions to either her or me.”

Sure enough, Dani is glowering at him from across the room.

“So we can’t leave?” a woman calls tremulously.

“I’m afraid not,” Gil says apologetically. “Not yet. It’s for your safety.”

Not true; it’s because all of them are suspects. Even though he assumes only one or two people, a handful at most, are actually responsible for the blood and the lights, allocating probable cause or reasonable suspicion isn’t a zero-sum game: they’re all equally suspicious until they do something to indicate innocence. Not that they need to know that.

The shocked roar has faded to a disgruntled murmur, which Gil expects to last a while. Not permanently, though. No, eventually people will get more and more agitated, until the scene becomes too big for Gil can manage. He can only hope reinforcements arrive before that point.

He offers a few more words of bland encouragement, which some of the guests seem to accept while the others just glare or exchange frightened looks. Whatever; Gil can’t please them all. Finally, he hands the microphone back to the musicians.

Jessica is waiting for him at the edge of the crowd. One look at her face, and he knows that whatever she found isn’t good. Taking her arm again, he tugs her to a slightly more private corner. “What is it?” he asks quietly.

“Gil…” She bites her lip. “Malcolm’s gone.”

“I know, I haven’t been able to—”

“And so is Ainsley.”

He stops. Stares at her. “Ainsley?”

She just nods, fear written all over her face.

“Ainsley,” he mutters, starting to pace in short, tight loops in front of her. Malcolm running off, he can understand. Malcolm getting himself into trouble, he can understand. But Ainsley?

To be fair. The girl is no angel. She might be less obviously reckless than Malcolm, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t gotten herself into trouble. Interviewing the Surgeon at Clairmont and getting trapped in a lockdown springs immediately to mind. But still.

“Why would they leave?” Jessica asks, almost _begs_ , like whatever answer Gil gives is guaranteed to calm the horrors clearly chasing themselves through her mind.

But he can’t give her an answer that will help. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But we’ll find them.”


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm

The first thing Malcolm is aware of is the sound of a young woman crying. The shaky breaths, the choked-back sobs…it all sounds familiar, but his head hurts too much to figure it out. Not to mention his brain is still pretty much offline.

He considers forcing his eyes open; that would probably help with identifying her. And figuring out where he is. And what happened. But it feels like his eyes are glued shut.

He resigns himself for the moment to just taking stock of himself. He’s lying on a hard, rough surface. Feels like cheap carpet? And aside from the throbbing pain deep in his skull and the general queasiness in his stomach, there’s an ache deep in his side, like red-hot glowing embers. Unfortunately, he’s familiar enough with the sensation to easily recognize it. He had, apparently, been stabbed. He doesn’t _quite_ remember how it happened, but the pain coupled with the sticky, heavy feeling of his shirt clinging to his skin creates a pretty compelling picture.

He isn’t quite panicking yet, although that will probably come once he’s more conscious. For now, there’s just a distant buzz of anxiety in the back of his mind. Annoying but not debilitating.

The woman is still crying. Slowly, through all the fuzziness in his head, the familiarity crystalized. He recognizes the voice.

His eyes snap open. “Ainsley?”

Her crying stutters. “Malcolm?” She crawls into view, dried blood running down the side of her face, tearstains on her cheeks, mascara smudged. “I thought—I didn’t know—you _weren’t waking up_.”

Locking a groan behind his teeth, he forces himself to try to sit up, and manages to get halfway propped up on his elbows before he has to stop. “How, uh, how long was I out?”

Her answering laugh is almost hysterical. “How should I know?” she asks, waving a hand at the room they’re in.

Malcolm drags his eyes past her face, forcing himself to take in the room. It looks…well, it looks like a living room out of a catalogue. They’re sitting on the floor, on thin, dusty-brown carpet. A bookcase towers over him, lined with meticulously arranged hardbacks organized by color. There’s also a pale leather couch, elegantly draped in a sage green throw blanket, with an end table beside it bearing a totally ordinary lamp, and a matching leather chair on the other side of the table. To the right is a large window covered by drapes. To the left is…huh.

To the left is a hastily-made plastered-over wall that doesn’t match the rest of the room, and a door.

“Locked,” Ainsley whispers, following his eyes. “I’ve already tried it.”

“How…how’d we get here?” Malcolm tries to sit up all the way, only to stop with a low grunt as the embers of his stab-wound spark angrily.

“Do you remember Mom’s party?”

“The, uh…” He scrunches up his face. “The hors’ d’vours weren’t great.”

“Malcolm!” Her face scrunches up too, like a mirror of his except more frustrated. “C’mon!”

“Sorry, I just…” His hand drifts up to touch at the worst of his headache, and he lets out a hiss as his finger encounters something sticky. More blood, probably. He tries to subtly wipe it on the carpet before Ainsley sees. “Got hit pretty hard on the head. Um. Okay.” He tries to refocus.

“You remember that guy? That creepy guy talking to Mom?”

Something clicks in Malcolm’s banged-up brain. “Ben!” he blurts out.

“ _Finally_ ,” she mutters, relief washing over her face. “Yeah, Ben. I think he’s behind this.”

“Why? I mean, not disagreeing with you that he was very sketchy. Still, I hate to be the one tell you this, Ains, but there were a _lot_ of neurotic people at that party.”

“But Ben was obsessed with us,” she insists. “And with Mom.”

“Fine.” Malcolm’s not convinced, exactly. Profiles aren’t built on five-second conversations. (That’s not true. They can be. Sometimes. But profiles are not built on five-second conversations that he’s having a hard time remembering.) But if he tries to argue with Ainsley, he knows exactly how that’ll go down: they’ll be stuck debating until they starve to death. Better to go along with her. For now, at least. “If you’re right, at least we’ve got motive. He’s obsessed with us or Mom or the whole family. So…we’re being held for ransom?”

“Probably.” Now Ainsley bites her lip, and Malcolm realizes abruptly that maybe he _should’ve_ kept arguing with her, if only to give her something real to fight against. Now that they’re on the same side, now that her enemy is nowhere to be seen, she’s left to feel the weight of their situation.

And it shows all over her face.

Malcolm clears his throat and _makes_ himself sit all the way up. He coughs to cover the involuntary sound that escapes him as the sparks of his wound flare up again. He feels something wet seep out; whatever healing he’d managed to get done while lying unconscious has probably been undone. Nice. “Anyway,” he says, more loudly than strictly necessary, “don’t worry. We’ll be fine. After all, I’m not exactly a rookie at being kidnapped.”

“Malcolm!” Ainsley slaps his shoulder. “Not funny. Besides, I was trapped with you at Clairmont.”

“Does that qualify as a kidnapping?” Malcolm wonders. She doesn’t seem to have noticed his injuries (or else he’d like to think she wouldn’t have slapped him), and he’d like to keep it that way. “We weren’t moved anywhere. We were just…unable to leave.”

“Are you _kidding_ me,” Ainsley mutters. “Which part of kidnapping is worse, moving the victim or locking them down?”

“Depends,” he shoots back, improvising wildly. He needs a plan. He also needs a moment of privacy to see how bad his injury really is.

“On _what?_ ” she demands, throwing up her hands.

“Um…” He can’t come up with something intelligent in time.

Her eyes narrow. “Wait, are you—”

“Did you look behind that curtain?” he asks quickly, pointing.

Her eyes narrow further. “You look.”

“What, so you checked out the door but not the window?”

“What makes you think it’s a window?”

He sighs loudly. “Fine. I’ll look.” And then, with an air of extreme carelessness, he shoves himself to his feet.

And _shouts_ as the sparks burn across his side.

“Malcolm!” Ainsley swoops in under him, catching him when he stumbles and holding him upright. Her fingers press against his wet shirt. “You’re bleeding,” she whispers, face white. “Malcolm, you’re—what _happened?_ ”

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” He tries to peel her fingers away. “I think I was kind of stabbed.”

“ _Kind of_ stabbed?” She tries to nudge him towards the couch; he tries to move them towards the window; the end up tripping over themselves and almost crashing back down to the floor. But Ainsley is, maybe, in this very specific instance, a bit steadier on her feet, so she’s able to take control of the would-be fall and steer their downward trajectory to the couch.

He collapses onto it, leather creaking, and glares up at her.

She presses her face into one of her hands, the one without his blood on it. “There’s nothing behind the curtains, you moron. It’s a painted-over window. Locked.”

“Can we break it?” he asks hopefully, glancing around the room for something that could do the trick. His eyes land on the end table.

Ainsley once again follows his gaze. She hums thoughtfully. “I’ll try.”

He plants his hands under him and heaves himself upwards; Ainsley grabs his arm as he balances on the balls of his feet.

“Damnit, Malcolm, I said _I’ll_ try,” she mutters.

He tries to shake her off. “I’m fine. And it’ll be heavy.”

“You’re _bleeding_. What even…” She tries to get at his shirt again.

“Ains!” His voice is sharper than he means it to be, but he can’t bring himself to apologize. It’s true what he said: he’s the one experienced with kidnappings. And stabbings. And all sorts of other horrible things. And Ainsley is no weeping flower, but there’s still this instinct in him to protect her. Shield her. Maybe it’s just part of being her older brother; maybe he picked it up from Jessica trying to protect her baby daughter. Malcolm doesn’t exactly know and he isn’t exactly inclined to figure it out right now.

Maybe the truth is, _he’ll_ feel better if he knows she isn’t worrying about him.

So.

“I’m fine,” he says again, emphasizing each syllable. “We need to focus on getting out of here.”

She must believe him, at least partially. If she didn’t, she’d plant her feet and refuse to budge until he showed her his injury (and probably let her play doctor, too). She’s stubborn like that. But he must be an excellent actor because she sighs, eyes still worried, but nods. “Can you walk alone?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says through gritted teeth, trying not to sound irritated. “I just keep moving too fast, that’s all.”

Strangely, she does not look reassured.

Rolling his eyes, he finally manages to detach himself towards her. He walks deliberately towards the end table. And, yeah, it hurts, and he’s feeling a tiny bit shaky in his extremities, but really, he’s fine. He even manages to lift the lamp off the table with no trouble.

Ainsley joins him on the other side of the table, wedging herself between the table and the couch. She curls her fingers under the edge of the surface. “Ready?”

He nods tightly, and crouches down, trying to get under the table’s center of gravity.

“Three, two, one…” They lift together, and she must be paying close attention to him because they’re in perfect sync even though he’s still moving a bit slower than normal. He raises the table while she helps and keeps it balanced, and if all the moving and straining tugs a bit more at his wound, it’s really not the end of the world.

“Okay,” Ainsley puffs. “Follow my lead.” She starts to edge out from next to the couch, Malcolm shifting and turning to stay even with her. Once out from around the couch, she takes a sideways step; Malcolm moves at the same time. Another step. Another.

“Wait,” he grunts, stopping to readjust his grip. Then he nods again. “Okay.”

Step. Step.

They’re halfway across the room when he hears a sound from behind them, like a key in a lock. Icy fear shoots through him and he freezes, head snapping around, just as Ainsley takes another step.

The table is pulled out of his hands. Ainsley yelps at the sudden downward weight and he twists, gasping, trying to dive back under the table to catch it, but he’s can’t make it in time. The table smashes to the ground, with Ainsley dropping it at the last second, springing out of the way.

“Well,” a voice says from behind them.

They whirl around.

Ben is standing in the doorway, head cocked as he observes them, face empty of emotion, tapping a handgun against his right thigh. “Aren’t you two creative.”

Malcolm catches his breath. “You.”

“ _You_ ,” Ainsley repeats, louder, stepping quickly around the table to plant herself between Malcolm and Ben.

Malcolm grabs her shoulder, tugging her back behind him.

“ _Stop it_ ,” she spits out, fighting to get in front of him again, but she can’t fight too hard when he’s injured, and they both know it, so he manages to keep her back even though the extra effort is not doing either his stab wound or his head wound any favors.

Ben looks confused for a second before he goes expressionless again. “What exactly was your plan?”

Malcolm and Ainsley glare mutely at him.

“Well, whatever it is…” Ben strides forward, raising the gun to wave it at them. “Back off. Go stand by the bookshelf.”

Malcolm refuses to move until he hears Ainsley go first, dragging her feet. Only then does he follow her. They huddle by the bookshelf. He keeps his eyes on Ben, so he’s surprised when he feels her smaller hand grab his.

Ben stalks into the room. He’s grumbling to himself, but his motions are jerky. Tense. Like he’s thrown off. Like he hadn’t expected to come into this room and find his two captives attempting to engage in interior design. Like he’s afraid of what they’ll try to do next.

He starts inspecting the table, although it’s slow going since his eyes keep darting over to Malcolm and Ainsley. But they hold perfectly still. After all, there’s no way to tell if the gun is loaded except by inference. And from what Malcolm can tell, a guy who’s willing to shut down a party, stab him, and kidnap him and his sister is probably the kinda guy willing to take the trouble to actually load his handgun before bringing it into the room to confront the two hostages in the middle of their daring escape plan.

Finally, he stands up with a muttered curse and kicks at the table. “You two,” he says, brandishing the gun at them again. “Stay there.”

Malcolm raises his hands, a show of innocence.

Ben starts shoving the table towards the door. It’s awkward, since he’s trying to keep his gun aimed at them. Malcolm feels Ainsley flinch next to him every few seconds or so, and he knows what she’s thinking.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

She doesn’t reply. She keeps flinching.

He gets it, he does. Ben’s distracted, fumbling between getting the table out of the room and keeping them pinned with the gun. It _feels_ like it would be easy to take him down. But he’s not incapacitated. He just has to squeeze the trigger, and one of them could _die_. Whereas if he really is holding them for ransom, they can afford to wait a little longer.

 _And what if he’s not?_ A voice in the back of Malcolm’s mind whispers. _What if he has something worse planned?_

It’s not impossible. Malcolm still hasn’t observed Ben long enough to tell whether the guy is sadistic or psychopathic. But in Malcolm’s experience, those possibilities can never be ruled out.

Ever.

By now, though, Ben is kicking the end table across the threshold at the door. He’s too far away to get to. Not compared to the fact that he can pull the trigger in an instant.

Scowling, Ben shoves the table out the door and closes it. Then he finally turns his full attention back on Malcolm and Ainsley, glaring.

“So,” he says.

Ainsley takes that as an invitation. “The hell do you think you’re doing?” she growls.

“Maybe you two should sit down.” Ben’s eyes sweep over Malcolm. “He’s looking a little unsteady.”

Malcolm realizes he’s been sagging against the bookshelf. He quickly straightens up.

“He’s fine,” Ainsley says loyally, but now she steps smoothly in front of Malcolm before he has the chance to try to keep her back. “What do you want with us?”

Ben ignores her. The hardness of his gaze is softening. “I can’t believe we’re really here. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting.”

Ainsley visibly bristles, shoulders rising as she opens her mouth.

But she’s still holding Malcolm’s hand. He squeezes, a silent warning. _Shut up. Don’t say anything. Let him talk._

It’s not like Malcolm is normally one to advocate for silence. But no matter what Gil says, he _does_ know when to talk and when to shut up. Talking is good when the bad guy is reluctant to share. But if the bad guy is already spelling his guts, piping up only risks getting in the way of that.

To his relief, Ainsley must get it, because she bites back whatever she was about to say.

“I mean,” Ben continues, backing up to sit on the arm of the couch, “it took forever just to figure out your identity, Malcolm Whitly. You know how many times I thought I should just leave you out of this? I found Ainsley right away. I mean, who doesn’t watch her stuff?” He offered Ainsley a weird, warped smile that actually looked kind of genuine. “You’re not my favorite, but you’re up there. The way you cut straight to the facts of a story, no spinning, no editorializing…” He cleared his throat. “Anyway.” His eyes drifted back over to Malcolm. “But you. Why’d you change your name?”

Malcolm takes a deep breath. “Why do you think?”

“Your father, right?” Ben guesses easily. “You wanted to separate yourself from him. Why, though? Was it to condemn him? Or just to protect yourself? Keep his reputation from following you around?”

Honesty. Honesty seems like the best policy here. “I wanted nothing to do with him,” Malcolm says. (All right, that’s…that’s a tiny bit a lie. But it’s only the childish part of him that still wants something to do with Martin; it’s a desire that Malcolm acknowledges in himself and rejects. He doesn’t want to want that, and the core of who he is and who he aspires to be doesn’t want that. So. It’s only partly a lie.) “I hate what he did. I don’t want him to be part of my life anymore.”

Ben nods; he looks partially approving. “That’s something, I guess.” Then his head rolls on his neck as he turns to consider Ainsley. “You, though. Building your fame off his. Milking it.” His upper lip curls. “You disgust me.”

Ainsley draws herself up. “I’m not _milking_ —”

“That footage from Clairmont? Interviewing that monster, and all of a sudden it turns into some kinda horror drama? Your camera guy almost dies?” Ben keeps his eyes fixed on her as he shakes his head. “Anything for the ratings.”

Ainsley actually gasps in furious indignation. Malcolm heard it a thousand times growing up whenever someone dared accuse her of crossing whatever moral line she had at the time. (Her moral lines tended to, well…shift, a bit.) “I had _nothing_ to do with that!”

“But your ratings sure spiked,” Ben snaps back. “And you ended up getting a studio gig after that, didn’t you?”

Malcolm sneaks a glance at Ainsley to see her flushing bright red. “It had _nothing_ to do with that,” she hisses.

“And then a serial killer calls your show,” Ben sweeps on. “ _Your show_ specifically. And you keep him on air, you turn it into this whole thing—”

“That was to find the killer,” Malcolm cuts in. “We needed to keep him on the line.”

“Really?” Ben’s attention swivels to Malcolm. “And how do you know?”

If Ben doesn’t know that Malcolm’s a profiler, Malcolm can’t give that away. “Ainsley told me,” he says steadily. “Afterwards. She said detectives were there and everything, trying to learn as much as they could and triangulate the Carousel Killer’s signal.”

Ben’s brow furrows; he looks confused for a second, then annoyed. Like the last thing he wants to hear are any facts that might possibly justify Ainsley’s behavior. He wants an excuse for this.

But…if he’s trying to punish Ainsley, that doesn’t explain why he’d wait to set all this up until he could get at Malcolm too.

“You still gave that killer too much attention,” Ben mutters. “I’m surprised you haven’t had more people calling in with threats and whatnot.”

Well, according to Ainsley, they had. But the network had a new policy of screening all those types of calls and not engaging the caller unless the NYPD thought it necessary. Which so far had never been the case since that first time. But Ben doesn’t need to know any of this.

Suddenly, Ben stands up. “Your mom, though.”

Malcolm leans forward, searching Ben’s face. His eyes are glowing with anger now, in a way they weren’t when he was talking about Ainsley. He isn’t searching to find a reason to blame Jessica; he thinks he already has it.

And if he already has it, _this_ must be the reason he’s gone to all this effort to capture not only Ainsley but also Malcom.

“She thinks she’s a hero, doesn’t she?”

Malcolm and Ainsley exchanged a glance, trying to imagine Jessica, whose favorite medicine is alcohol and who has to give most of her donations away under false names so charities don’t reject her gift, thinking of herself as a hero.

Ben looks down at his gun. “How long was she married to him? While he was out there…out there _killing_ people? How many nights did she sleep with him when he was high off the adrenaline of taking someone’s life?”

“She didn’t know,” Ainsley growls. Malcolm grabs her hand, squeezes, trying to silently tell her to shut up. Her eyes flash at him, and she presses her lip together into a thin, angry line.

Ben looks back up at them. “She didn’t know? She didn’t _know?_ And, what, that makes it all okay? Is that what you think?”

Malcolm squeezes Ainsley’s hand again.

Ben bites his lip, then gestures with the gun around the room. “Do you know whose house this is?”

Malcolm shakes his head.

“Of course you don’t. You _don’t know_. Just like Jessica _didn’t know_. You’re all just victims, is that what you think? Victims of the Surgeon?” Ben bites out an acrid laugh. “Whatever helps you sleep better, right? Because that’s all that matters. Let me tell you, friends—this house used to belong to my son. But he’s gone now. You wanna know why?”

Malcolm’s mouth goes dry.

“Because _your father_ thought it would be a fun _experiment_ to see how long he could live with his _skin_ peeled away.”

Ainsley shivers.

The gun shakes in Ben’s hand. “And now I get to see how long _I_ can live without him. It gets harder every day. Every. Single. Day.” He raises the gun and, for one second, aims the barrel at his own head.

“Wait,” Malcolm blurts out.

But Ben lowers the gun as a cool, emotionless mask descends over his features. “Well, now Jessica can do the experiment with me. We’ll see which one of us breaks first.”

With that, he spins on his heel and leave the room.

The door shuts. Locks.


	4. Chapter 4

Gil

His kid is missing, and he’s willing to bet the spilled blood is his. Or, well, _maybe_ the blood is some other unfortunate victim’s, and Malcolm saw the whole thing or figured out what happened, and took off without waiting for backup. Wouldn’t be the first time, not even close. But Malcolm should’ve at least told Gil what happened. A text, if nothing else. And he should definitely be answering Gil’s calls.

So, no. Gil is still willing to bet that the blood is Malcolm’s.

Jessica prints off copies of the guest list, and she and Gil split the room in half, going from person to person, checking their names against the list and asking if anyone they know has gone missing (or if they saw anything suspicious at any point during the night). It takes two hours to comb through the entire party. (Gil’s skin itches to think what’s happening to Malcolm during all this.)

Backup has arrived by the time he and Jessica are ready to reconvene, which means he has to stop and talk the officers through the situation and assign roles. It’s another half hour before he and Jessica are finally able to share their results.

Five people are missing: Malcolm, Ainsley, and three guests (two male, one female). Plus, Gil and Jessica both encountered a handful of people (four total) who had somehow gotten into the party even though they weren’t on the list, claiming all sorts of excuses.

“Who will you go after first?” Jessica demands.

Gil hesitates; “go after” is a little strong given how he’s not sure what he’s dealing with here. “It’s possible that none of these people are responsible. The three other missing individuals could be victims as well, and the perpetrator could be someone who snuck in, and didn’t stay long enough for us to notice. Or it could be someone who broke in. I haven’t seen any signs of forced entry, but I didn’t have time to sweep the entire house. I’ve got some cops on it now,” he adds as she opens her mouth.

Jessica scowls; it’s clear she’s not happy with how slow the investigation is going, but that’s police work. It has to be slow and methodical and thorough, or else it sends you in all the wrong directions and wastes hours or even days.

Gil leans in close, and brushes the back of his hand against her jaw before he can talk himself out of the gesture. “Trust me, Jess.”

Just for a second, she closes her eyes at his touch. “I do, Gil, it’s just…”

“I know.” Gil drops his hand back to his side. “I’ll start looking for our three other missing persons now. I’ll keep you updated.”

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

She needs a job, he knows this. “You know this house better than anyone. Can you hunt through it, look for any clues we might have missed? And after that, get as much information as you can on our missing persons. Our records are limited to technical facts; you might be able to use the social scene to dig up something more substantive.”

She nods, relief washing over her face. “All right. All right.” She wets her lips. “Just…Gil.” She blinks, clearly struggling to keep the fear out of her eyes; she covers the fear with anger as her eyes narrow. “You _have_ to find them.”

It’s not directed at him, he knows. It’s directed at whoever did this. Gil would almost pity the culprit. He nods back, slower, doing his best to seem in control. (She’s not as reckless as her children, but he doesn’t want to think about what she might get up to if she thinks for one second that he isn’t making enough progress at finding her children.) “We will. They’ll be back with you before you know it. I promise.”

He shouldn’t promise that; that’s one of the first things they teach you at the academy: don’t make promises you can’t keep. It’ll cause the victim or victim’s family to lose faith in you, and it could cause witnesses to back out.

But Gil isn’t worried about Jessica backing out, and he knows that if he fails, she’ll lose faith in him anyway.

~

Gil calls JT in first thing. JT offers to join the hunt on the ground, but Gil sends him to the station to run his three missing persons through the system. Just in case JT can turn up something more than what Gil gets from whichever rookie is currently on the job. All the rookie has come up with so far are addresses and dates of birth.

Well, it’s a place to start.

The woman who left Jessica’s party apparently left early, preferring to go home and read a good novel with her cat and a mug of tea. Gil only spends about twenty minutes questioning her

Neither of the men are at home. JT, however, comes up with license plates and does a search, sending Gil to a bar where he finds one of the men sloppy drunk and screaming at the TV in the corner showing a football game. Apparently the refs are biased. Gil can’t get the man to focus on any questions, so he leaves.

The third man is harder to find. Gil discovers the vehicle registered to him still parked at his house, which is empty. JT reports that his wife has a vehicle, though, which Gil tracks to a movie theater. He waits by the car (a tiny Buick, painted a whimsical lilac), tapping his foot anxiously, until she comes out.

She’s a small woman, proportional to her car, moving with quick, near-silent steps. When she passes under a streetlight, he sees that her dark hair is done up in a bun, accentuating sharp cheekbones and wide blue eyes. She skitters nervously to a stop when she notices him, like a mouse under the hungry gaze of a cat.

Gil holds up his badge. “I just want to talk, ma’am.”

At the sight of the badge, she clutches the strap of her purse tighter and edges closer. “What’s wrong, Officer?” Her voice is as faint as the rest of her.

“Lieutenant,” he corrects. He’s not trying to be rude, but he wants her to know right away that he’s not about to give her an easy time in this conversation. He pulls a notepad and pen from his pocket. “Lieutenant Gil Arroyo with the NYPD. I just need to ask you a couple of questions.”

Her eyes dart to the side, like she’s looking for help, but she nods. “About what? I’ve—I’ve just been here at the movie. With my friend. I have my ticket if you need proof, or I can call my friend, she just left because she has little kids, but I don’t—”

“It’s all right,” Gil cuts her off. “Let me see your ticket.” She passes it over, and he scans it briefly. It’s legit. Double feature; she’s been here all night. Supposedly. If he pursues her as a suspect, he’ll want to check with the theater staff to see whether she actually stayed for the entire show, but she’s not his main concern right now. “And what’s your husband been up to this evening?”

“Oh, um.” She tucks a loose strand of hair back behind her ears. “He said he was going out. Some kind of boys night with his friends, that’s why I thought I’d be okay if I just saw a movie real quick. Why? Is—is he okay?”

Gil jots this down. “Where was this guy’s night? Bar? Friend’s house?”

“Friend’s house,” she answers nervously. “Um, his name is Owen. His friend, I mean, not my husband.” She blushes under the streetlight, ducking her head. “Obviously you know that. Sorry.”

“What’s Owen’s address?”

“Um, let me…” She opens her purse.

“Wait!” Gil steps quickly closer, making her freeze in panic. He might feel guilty about that later, but he’s known enough cops who let some innocent-looking person root around in a bag only to end up with a bullet or knife in their gut.

“My—m-my phone,” she stammers. “It has his friend’s a-a-address.”

“Let me feel it first,” Gil orders, and she obediently holds out the bag. He pats it down quickly, and doesn’t feel anything resembling a weapon, so he lets her withdraw her phone and scroll through her contacts until she holds up the screen to show him an address to write down.

“One last question for you, ma’am.” Gil looks into her eyes. “Are you familiar with Jessica Whitly?”

Her brow furrows. “Who?”

“What about Malcolm Bright?”

“Um, no…”

“What about Ainsley Whitly?”

“Wait, yes!” Her eyes light up, like she’s relieved to have a better answer for him. “On the news, right? My husband watches her.”

There, that might be something. “He does?” Gil asks neutrally, hoping she’ll voluntarily give more information.

“Yeah. He used to just youtube her, I think, but now that she has her own show, he always watches it. Or records it.” She blushes again. “I think he has a crush on her. Which, I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s fine, I’m not upset. It’s fine.”

“Does he ever talk about her? About Ainsley Whitly?”

“Um, no, not really. He just…watches.”

“All right.” Gil writes this down, too. “That’s very helpful.”

“Is—is everything okay?” she asks.

“I hope so, ma’am. That being said…” He hands her a card. “If you hear or see anything unusual, if you just have a feeling something’s not right, go ahead and call me. All right?”

She takes a deep breath. “My husband. Is my husband okay?”

He forces a smile. “I hope so, ma’am. You have a good night.” And with that, he finally steps aside to let her get into her car, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she immediately pulls out her phone. She presses some buttons, then holds it to her ear. She doesn’t say more than two or three words before she hangs up. Her face is shadowed, but she looks worried.

Gil wishes he had Dani or JT with him so he could have them follow her, just to be safe. But although she seemed nervous, it wasn’t the kind of nervous that suggested she was keeping something back. Gil’s inclined to think she was just nervous about the whole situation. And maybe about her husband: both whether he was okay, and…maybe how he would react to all this.

(After all, it seemed like the only free time she had to spend with her friends was when she thought he was out with his.)

If Ben Wright is involved in anything, Gil wonders if his wife would even have a clue.

He drives straight to the friend’s house. Owen. But his heart is sinking when he pulls up and finds the place dark.

He knocks on the door until he’s greeted by a very irate Owen, who shuts up in the middle of cursing him out the second Gil holds up his badge. But Owen confirms what Gil already suspected: there was no guy’s night here. In fact, Owen says he hasn’t seen Ben in a while. Ben’s been skipping out on activities, even standing activities like watching games together. Owen is worried, though Gil can’t tell if it’s because he think’s Ben is in trouble or because he thinks Ben _is_ trouble.

Either way, it confirms one thing to Gil: Ben was lying to his wife about where he was tonight, using his unsuspecting friend as cover to go to Jessica’s party. There’s more investigation to be done, but for now Ben has shot straight to the top of Gil’s suspect list.

Gil just has to find him. Which is easier said than done.

~

The next day, Gil, Dani, JT, and the rest of the cops rule out the other guests as suspects. Ben Wright will need a damn good explanation for what happened before Gil removes him from the list of suspects. That is, if Gil can manage to find him.

Unfortunately, the judge won’t grant Gil a warrant to search Ben’s house just yet. She says lights going out, blood, and a couple people leaving a party early aren’t enough for probable cause.

Well, figures. This particular judge is one of the few who used to be a defense attorney, not on the prosecution. She’s not a fan of the NYPD. Or of search warrants.

Jessica is pissed.

Gil keeps looking. But the judge who won’t sign off on a search warrant also won’t let Gil subpoena bank or phone records or anything else that could help him track this guy down with technology. Gil runs a records check, and Ben comes up clean. The only thing of note that comes up in Gil’s various searches is that Ben Wright used to have a son. Used to. It was a homicide, killer unknown. Case still open. Gil looks through the file, finds nothing helpful, and suddenly he can’t stand wasting another moment behind a computer screen. He leaves to hunt for his suspect the old-fashioned way: in his car, driving at a crawl through the streets of New York, desperate for any sign that something’s off.

Dani has better luck tracking Malcolm’s phone. They figure he won’t mind. They find the phone in a dumpster behind a McDonald’s, muted. They interview every single person in the McDonald’s, both staff and customers, but nobody knows anything.

Gil demands access to security footage. The grainy footage shows a man (Caucasian, middle-aged, completely average height and weight) walk onscreen, drop the phone in a dumpster, and vanish offscreen again. That’s it; that’s all they get.

~

The second day, Jessica calls to formally report that Malcolm Bright and Ainsley Whitly are missing. The second day, Ainsley’s work calls demanding to know where she is, and Jessica tells them to talk to Gil. Which means Gil has to spend two hours arguing with media executives why he can’t divulge details of the investigation, and trying to warn them against inventing their own.

In the meantime, he asks Jessica how Ben ended up invited to the party. He learns that Ben’s wife works for a charity, one that received thousands of dollars in donations from Jessica. And yet somehow Ben got on the guest list, and his wife didn’t.

~

By the third day, the media is running with a twisted version of events that makes Jessica look complicit in the entire affair.

Gil has some cops staking out Ben’s home. The only person coming and going is Ben’s wife; Ben himself is still nowhere to be found.

Meanwhile, Jessica uses a spare key to get them into Ainsley’s apartment. If Ben is obsessed with her as his wife suggested, maybe he’s broken into her place. Stolen things of hers, either before or after Jessica’s party, or left messages.

They find nothing.

~

By the fourth day, Clairmont Psychiatric is calling the NYPD with a patient asking for Lieutenant Gil Arroyo. What really makes Gil’s blood boil is not just that the Surgeon thinks he can summon Gil to the phone like some kind of personal informant, and not just the way the Surgeon dares to act like he cares more about Malcolm and Ainsley’s disappearance than Gil, but the way the Surgeon makes snide comments suggesting he agrees with the media’s portrayal of events.

Gil hangs up on him and immediately calls Jessica to tell her not to answer any of the Surgeon’s calls. Jessica is already crying. Gil tries his best, but he’s not sure anything he says actually convinces her that the media and the Surgeon are wrong about her.

“This is all my fault,” she breathes.

Gil wishes he could hold her, but he’s miles away at the office, pouring over statements from the handful of guests who actually decided to cooperate with the police. “No one really believes that,” he insists. “It’s just the network sensationalizing things.”

“ _I_ threw that stupid party, _I_ invited both my children there—”

“Did you have _any_ reason to think anyone would be in danger at that party?” he demands.

She sniffles. “No…”

“There,” he says, even though he’s not actually stupid enough to think he’s erased her doubts with just that.

She hesitates. “But…”

Gil closes his eyes, concentrates on his voice. “Talk to me, Jess.”

“I…I should’ve _known_.”

“Known what?”

“About Martin,” she whispers.

Gil opens his eyes. What did that have to do with this? But even though Gil isn’t an expert in psychology, he _is_ intuitive enough to know that Jessica might not have an answer to that. He’s seen enough tragedy to know how fear and grief knock old memories loose, make them all mix together, turn everything into an inseparable mess of emotions and tangled logic. “Jess,” he says slowly. “Martin is a psychopath. And a genius. And he intended to hide everything he was doing from you. _No one_ could’ve seen the truth.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Malcolm did.”

“Martin wasn’t as careful with Malcolm him. Even when Malcolm was a kid, Martin was grooming him. But you? Martin wanted nothing except to keep you in the dark.”

“I just…” She trails off.

“Just what?”

“I should’ve seen it,” she says, and hangs up.


	5. Chapter 5

Malcolm

Malcolm and Ainsley try once to move the couch to the window, hoping to use the extra mass to break it. But the couch is too heavy, and trying to lift it reopens Malcolm’s stab wound. He brushes off Ainsley’s concern.

With no chance to escape through the window, they look for other chances. Ben comes in periodically with food, or to handcuff them and escort them one at a time outside of the room to visit a bathroom just down the hall. There are other doors along the hall, but they’re sealed shut—as Malcolm discovered quite painfully when he tried to make a break for it one time, ramming his shoulder against the wall like JT did once to knock a door in.

To be fair, JT has a lot more mass to work with. And training. And experience.

Still, Malcolm had to try, even though he was left with a massive bruise and a pissed-off Ben. He also kind of reopened his stab wound, which was just great. His shirt is stiff with dried blood.

That was nothing compared to what Ainsley tried, once. Malcolm had been sitting on the couch, trying to force his brain into magically coming up with a genius plan, when the door suddenly flew open and Ben tossed Ainsley in. His nose was bleeding.

Ainsley skidded on the floor, hands still cuffed behind her back, a glorious black eye blossoming across her face and murder in her eyes. As soon as Ben slammed the door shut again, leaving them alone, she explained he’d seemed distracted. Apparently not so distracted as to let her get away with ramming the back of her head into his face.

He hadn’t even bothered to uncuff her. Malcolm thought he could pick the lock with some screws in the lamp or something, maybe, but he also thought it was better to save that trick for an emergency.

“This isn’t an emergency?” Ainsley asked, scowling.

At this point, he classified an emergency as anything life-or-death, so no.

Anyway, that was three days ago. Or…no, four. Four, probably. Hard to keep track in this tiny room with its stupid, broken clock. Malcolm would give anything for it to tick.

“Okay.” Ainsley is pacing their small space, as she’s been doing for the past…five minutes? Half hour? Hour? (She’s no longer cuffed, at least. Ben came in and let her go after a couple hours, gloating the whole time about the chafing on her wrists from her struggles to escape.)

Malcolm honestly doesn’t know. He’s lying on the couch with his eyes closed, curled up a little around his stab wound. The harder he tries to ignore it, the more persistent the pain is. It’s annoying, really. He wants to complain about it to Ainsley, but that wouldn’t be fair. She already knows he was stabbed; going on and on about it would just be forcing her to think about a problem she can’t fix. And they have enough of those already.

“It’s pretty clear there’s no way out of this room,” she goes on, as she’s been saying more or less the whole time. “We have to do something.”

“But what exactly do you plan on doing?” he murmurs, eyes still closed. He suspects that watching her pace will just make him dizzy.

“I don’t _know_ , Malcolm,” she mutters, but the sharpness in her voice is…odd. Defensive, maybe? He thinks? He normally has a pretty good read of his sister, but not right now. Right now, he just feels…bad. She doesn’t give him time to figure out what she isn’t saying. “Maybe you could help think instead of just lying there, waiting for Gil to rescue you.”

Malcolm is a bit offended by that, but the most he can manage is an indignant huff.

“Don’t huff at me.” But her pacing pauses, a tiny crease appearing between her eyebrows as she cocks her head at him. Studies him. “You okay?”

“Me?” Malcolm echoes blankly.

“You’d normally be arguing with me.” She approaches the couch. “Pointing out how you first met Gil because you were rescuing him, or something.”

Malcolm doesn’t think so. He knows Gil conceives of their meeting as Malcolm saving his life, but Malcolm knows better. He’s the one who called the police; he’s the one Gil ended up in danger in the first place. It was reckless. Stupid, even for a kid. Putting someone else in danger like that, just because Malcolm had finally realized he couldn’t take it anymore. Gil risked everything, even though he hadn’t known it, to rescue _Malcolm_. Not the other way around.

He opens his mouth, thinks for a second about how much effort it would actually take to explain all that to Ainsley, and closes his mouth. Too much effort.

The crease between her eyebrows deepens. She sits on the edge of the couch, jostling him a little as the cushions shift under her weight. “I know it’s hard, but we can’t give up.”

Malcolm isn’t giving up. _Giving up_ would probably involve using the lamp sometime when Ben had her out of the room. There are plenty of ways he could make use of it to remove himself from the equation. Not that he’s thought about it. Giving up would mean leaving Ainsley here all alone.

He’s just…so tired. That’s all.

“Hey.” She nudges him. “What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when we’re out of here?”

He tries to think about it. He thinks about Dani, seeing her eyes light up, hearing her laugh. He should tell Ainsley about her. Get Ainsley’s opinion. Maybe Ainsley can help explain why Dani’s so shy about being public with him. Or, well, no, Malcolm understands that. At least, he thinks he does. What he doesn’t understand is how to coax her out of it. Maybe Ainsley can help with that.

Ainsley gives up on waiting for him to come up with an answer. She also scoots closer, and rests her head on his shoulder. Her hair tickles his neck. “I’m gonna get a cheeseburger.”

He blinks, letting his cheek fall against the top of her head. His arm goes around her automatically. “Really? A cheeseburger?”

“Doesn’t it sound good?” She gives a wistful little sigh. “I can’t decide if I want pickles or not.”

“You love pickles,” he points out.

“Yeah, but I didn’t when I was little.”

Oh. He gets that right away, the desire to go back in time just for a bit. Pretend like they were kids, and all they had to worry about was figuring out how to fill all the free time in a day. Which games to play? Which toys to use? How best to meld imagination and reality?

He nods thoughtfully. “Cheeseburgers sound good.” Not that he’d be able to eat one, probably; he’s barely eaten anything Ben’s brought them. But it’d be nice to smell it again. Cheeseburgers and fries smell like stakeouts with Gil. After all, it wasn’t like Jessica approved of that kind of food.

He wonders idly if Gil ever told her about them. Or if it was a little secret. He kind of hopes Jessica doesn’t know; he likes the idea of the cheeseburgers and fries on stakeouts being something just between him and Gil.

“Who bought you cheeseburgers?” he asks suddenly.

Ainsley shrugs. “One of my teachers. Sometimes Mom was late to pick me up from school, so…”

Malcolm feels a stab of guilt. He ran away from classes or otherwise got into trouble enough times that Jessica often had to stay late to talk to some school official or other. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She tilts her head enough to smile slyly at him. “I got cheeseburgers.”

He feels a surge of affection for his little sister. Her positive attitude and even her conniving ways. He clears his throat. “Hey, uh…Ains?”

She tilts her head at him even more, getting just the right angle to make her eyes look big and innocent and childlike. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re in here with me,” he manages to say. “I mean, uh…” He feels a wave of embarrassed heat. “I’m not glad you’re _here_. But I’m glad you’re _with me_.”

There’s a look in her eyes that he can’t quite place. She doesn’t vocalize it, which leaves him helpless to figure out what she’s really thinking as she nudges him again. “You don’t wish I was Dani?” she asks lightly.

It takes him a second to figure out what she’s talking about. Then he flushes even hotter. “You—I don’t—she—what?”

“Oh, come _on_.” Ainsley laughs, soft but triumphant. “You think I can’t see it? Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Malcolm stares at the couch, trying to trace all the tiny threads. “She doesn’t want me talking about it.”

Ainsley’s laughter cuts off sharply. “Wait, what? Talking about _what_ , exactly?”

Now Malcolm’s confused. “That we’re…dating?”

“You’re _dating?_ ” Ainsley screeches, right in his ear. “ _Officially?_ ”

“Shh!” Malcolm hisses, jerking upright and gasping in pain as it tears at his stab wound. He covers it as best he can by talking. “You wanna bring Ben back in here?”

Ainsley completely ignores that, looking absolutely gleeful. “You guys are seriously _dating?_ I thought you just had a crush on her, I didn’t think you’d actually _done_ something about it.”

“Yeah, well,” Malcolm mumbles. He doesn’t really want to have relationship talk with Ainsley. He doesn’t want to know what Ainsley will think about the fact that Dani is still so private about their relationship.

“Hey.” Ainsley leans over him. “What’s wrong?”

“Mmm, let me think about that.” Malcolm makes a show of glancing around the room. “We’re trapped in a single room by a madman who wants to punish us for being born?”

She rolls her eyes. “I mean, what’s wrong with Dani?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he groans.

For a moment, Ainsley is silent. Then she gives a little sigh and sits back, pulling her knees up to her chest.

Malcolm feels a pang of guilt. He glances up at her.

She’s gazing wistfully across the room. “Hey, Malcolm?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember…remember after Dad got arrested?”

Yes. Vividly. Why? “Yeah.”

“We talked about everything.”

Oh. Malcolm goes back to staring at the couch. “I mean, we couldn’t exactly talk to Mom. Not when she was dealing with…everything.”

“She tried to talk to us later,” Ainsley points out hesitantly.

Too little, too late. She’d had a window, and she’d missed it. It was childish to punish her for being distracted with grown-up worries; Malcolm knew that even as a kid. But it wasn’t like he was actually trying to punish her. It was just that…when he needed her, she hadn’t really been there.

He knew now, of course, that everything she did, she did for them. He knew now, at least partially, how much she sacrificed to protect them and give them some chance at living an almost-normal life. (He should thank her for that. He wasn’t sure he ever really had.) But that didn’t change the fact that…they all just got used to…not talking.

“Malcolm,” Ainsley says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you stop talking to me?”

“I…”

“I mean, about the _real_ stuff.”

Because, yeah, they talked more to each other than either of them did to Jessica. But still.

Malcolm tries to think. “I guess I just…didn’t think you needed me. Like you did before.” He shrugs tiredly. “You grew up, Ains. You didn’t need me to take care of you anymore.”

She exhales disbelievingly through her nose. “No, you’re always trying to protect me. You and Mom both. Trying to keep me away from Dad, not telling me what he’s up to…”

Malcolm winces. “Sorry. Sorry, we just thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Ainsley interrupts, “but that’s not the point. The point is, you thinking I need to be protected hasn’t changed. So that can’t be what explains why you stopped talking to me. So what is it, Malcolm?”

His eyes drift up towards the ceiling. She’s too smart for her own good. “I dunno.”

“Well, we should figure it out.”

She’s also ruthless. He rubs at his eyes. “What, now? While we’re being held hostage?”

She sniffs. “What else are we gonna talk about?”

He wants to snap back that she’s the reporter, she should think of something. But that wouldn’t be fair. He doesn’t want to fight with her. He doesn’t want to do _anything_. But at this point, it’s clear that keeping quiet will upset her, so he forces himself to sit up, pressing a hand over the knife wound.

Is he going crazy, or is his skin hotter than it should be?

He’s probably just tired. He takes a deep breath. “What was the question?”

She squints at him. “Are you okay?”

“Aside from being held hostage? Never better.”

“Malcolm.”

He remembers, belatedly, what she was originally asking about. Them talking. Him protecting her. Whether he can explain why he stopped talking to her even though he didn’t stop trying to protect her.

And he thinks, maybe, he _can_ explain it.

He just…doesn’t want to.

Ainsley slumps back down on the couch, thumping her heel against the floor the way she used to kick at the legs of a chair when she was a kid and upset about something.

It tugs on Malcolm’s heart in all the wrong (or right) ways. And the problem with being an expert in psychology is that even though it’s _safer_ to profile other people, it’s not necessarily _hard_ to profile yourself.

If you’re brave enough to try.

“Never mind,” Ainsley says, quiet and soft enough to make it clear that she’s not bitter or resentful, which somehow makes her giving up on him feel _worse_.

But Malcolm isn’t going to argue against ending the conversation. His head is foggy, and the cut across his stomach feels like fire, and he just wants to pass out. So he curls up and closes his eyes and pretends to ignore the tension spreading steadily through Ainsley’s body, pretends not to worry about what she’s thinking about.

Pretends to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Gil

It’s been five days.

The mood at the precinct is noticeably different. Malcolm was never really anyone’s favorite guy; after all, the kid was maybe _too_ brilliant. Nobody liked to feel like all their secrets were laid bare like that.

But still, there was no denying that the kid was good at his job.

And besides that, he was one of their own. He wasn’t a cop, but he still worked for the NYPD. Someone going after him felt different. Personal. Even for the people who _hadn’t_ been saved by him at some point.

And that’s nothing compared to how Malcolm’s team is reacting.

Gil is tense, and not just because he can’t stop imagining what might be happening to Malcolm right now…if Malcolm is still _alive_. But Gil’s tension is feeding on itself, since he’s had enough experience dealing with the worst cases to know when a bad one is hitting too close to home. He’s all too familiar with feeling his objectivity crack, getting closer and closer every day (every _hour_ ) to shattering entirely. And at that point, what is he gonna be capable of accomplishing? He might as well take himself off the case entirely, turn it over to someone else.

Who, though? Not JT. Detective Tarmel is normally unflappable, but this case is getting to him. He’s quieter, except when he’s snapping at someone to get something done. JT doesn’t snap. Doesn’t lose his cool. But he’s protective of the people he thinks of are his, and Gil’s chest tightens at the realization that JT has finally decided that Malcolm Bright is one of his.

And then there’s Dani. Gil has seen Detective Powell withdrawn before, but this is different. She’s a ghost. She doesn’t speak unless it’s to report a potential lead on the case, and while pursuing the lead she’s tight-lipped and focused…and then she shuts down again whenever the lead hits a dead end.

He tries to talk to her about it, once. Asks her to stay late and talk in his office.

She sinks into the chair on the other side of his desk like her legs are too tired to hold her weight. “If you have bad news for me, all due respect, but just spit it out.”

“No bad news,” Gil says gently. “I’m just checking in on you.”

Her eyebrows pinch together. “I’m fine.”

Coming out from around the desk, he sits on the corner. “That’s the thing, though. I don’t think you are.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. “I have to be.”

“And why’s that?”

She throws him an incredulous look. Tries to, anyway, but it’s hard to pull off when her eyes are watering. “I’m a—” Her voice catches; she starts over. “I’m a detective.”

“And you’re his friend.”

She closes her eyes; a tear escapes.

Gil keeps his voice low and soft. “I know I don’t need to tell you how hard it is when a case is this personal. Having a hard time doesn’t make you a bad detective.”

She scoffs (although the sound is uneven). “Not finding Bright makes me a bad detective.”

“Is JT a bad detective, Powell? Am I?”

She opens her eyes guiltily. “No. Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Gil leans forward. “Why the double standard, then?”

She just shakes her head, lowering her gaze to stare down at her shoes. A tear clings to her lashes, glistening in the low light of Gil’s office.

His own throat tightens. Dani’s not his kid, but she’s still _his_. His detective, part of his team. And she’s the girl he fought for when no one else would.

Moving on instinct, Gil slides off the desk, going down on his knees in front of her straight in her line of sight. She’s startled into meeting his gaze. He sets a hand on her knee. “Talk to me, Dani.”

She grits her teeth, like she has to physically keep herself from doing just that.

“You’re not a bad detective,” Gil insists. “You’re one of the best. Whoever did this, it’s clear they’ve been planning it for a long time. We’re playing catch-up, but that doesn’t mean we’ll lose. We’ll find Malcolm and Ainsley, and we’ll make whoever’s responsible pay for—”

“What does that _matter_ if they’re _dead?_ ”

Gil holds her gaze. He can’t promise that they aren’t dead, he _can’t_. Not in their line of work. So he just repeats: “You’re not a bad detective.”

“Great,” she bites out.

He tilts his head. “What?”

“I mean, since I might as well be a good detective if I don’t know how to be a good friend, or a good—” She cuts herself off.

Gil’s heart aches for her. “You’re a good friend, Dani.”

She’s trembling under his hand.

“You’re a good friend,” he repeats. “Who else would’ve even shown up at that fancy party just because Malcolm asked them to?”

Her hands clasp in her lap so tightly he knows her nails are digging into her palms. “You don’t _get_ it.”

“Explain it to me, then,” he replies steadily.

And he gets…silence. White-knuckled, teeth-clenched silence.

“Dani? What aren’t you telling me?”

She stands up so quickly he has to jerk back. “Nothing.” She takes a deep breath. “You need anything else from me?”

For a long time, Gil just stares at her. He knows better than to think he can wait her out, but he doesn’t know how else to convey how badly he wants her to be honest with him, short of outright ordering her.

Dani meets his stare unflinchingly.

“No,” he says at last, giving in. “You can go.”

She gives a short, sharp nod, and turns.

“But—Dani?”

She stops. Glances back.

“Whatever’s going on, you know you can tell me. Right?”

She opens her mouth, and seems to waver on the edge of saying something. Finally, she averts her gaze and simply says, “You’re not the problem, Gil. It’s me.”

Then she’s gone, leaving Gil’s door wide open in her wake.

~

After work, Gil goes straight to Jessica’s house where he finds her sitting at her magnificent dining room table, trawling through the social media accounts of her various guests. She has no issue with seeing Ben Wright as the primary suspect, but there’s little she can do to help track him down, and Gil understands that she needs to be doing _something_.

He slips into the chair beside her. “Find anything interesting?”

She barely spares a glance at him “Does finding an absence of something count?”

“What do you mean?”

“ _None_ of the other guests have anything in common with the kidnapper. Not even mutual friends. They don’t even like the same posts.”

Gil rubs at his eyes. “We already know he came to this party with the intent to go after Malcolm and Ainsley. We already know he didn’t have any other reasons to be here.”

Jessica slams her laptop shut. “Sorry for trying to be _helpful_.”

Gil winces. “That’s—that’s not what I meant, Jess.”

She stares stonily across the room, not looking at him.

He’s too exhausted to try to form a better apology. “Ben’s wife said he was obsessed with Ainsley’s show.”

Jessica’s eyes flick towards him for one instant. “He was? But why would he care about Malcolm?”

Gil shrugs. “Maybe he was with her. Maybe he’s collateral damage. He wouldn’t have let anyone get to Ainsley without a fight.”

Jessica bites her lip. “He should’ve stayed out of it. That way he could’ve _told_ us what was going on.”

Gil laughs darkly. “When has Malcolm ever stayed out of anything?”

Jessica smiles weakly. An instant later, the smile is gone. “Do you think he’s a stalker? If he’s obsessed with Ainsley?”

“That’s one guess. But we went to her apartment and didn’t find any signs.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t know where her apartment is?”

“Maybe.” Ainsley was certainly less public than Jessica, despite her success in the news. “Or…” Gil waits until she’s looking at him. “Maybe it’s not that he wants her. Maybe he has a problem with her.”

“Why would anyone have a problem with Ainsley?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.” Gil watches her face carefully. “Can you think of anything she’s done that would make someone angry? Has she told you about any conflicts, at work or anywhere else?”

Jessica shakes her head. “Ainsley’s an angel, Gil, you know this. Malcolm is the one who…rubs people the wrong way.”

“Malcolm’s not the one Ben was obsessed with,” Gil points out. “Maybe…” He hesitates, remembering the fiasco at Clairmont Psychiatric when Ainsley and Malcolm were trapped during Ainsley’s ill-advised interview with the surgeon. And what about that time when she interviewed the Carousel Killer on live TV? “Do you know of anything she’s done that might be…kind of…unethical?”

Jessica stiffens. “No.”

“Are you _sure?_ ”

“ _Yes_.”

Gil stands up and starts pacing. “What aren’t you telling me, Jessica?”

Her eyes fly wide. “You honestly think I’m holding something back? What secret could _possibly_ be more important to me than the lives of my children?”

He frizzes; his stomach shrivels. He steps back, hands on his hips. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Jess. I just…” He trails off.

She stands up too, drawing herself up to her full height even as she wipes at her eyes. “Just find them, Gil.”

~

Malcolm

Malcolm is curled up on the couch and shivering. When did the room get so cold? He keeps his hand over his stab wound, which is warm to the touch even through his shirt. The warmth spreads to his hand but not further. He wants a blanket. Or warm food. Or a hot shower.

A shower sounds like a _great_ idea, actually. Neither he nor Ainsley smell fantastic. On the one hand, it’s the least of their worries. On the other, something about the way he smells in particular is kinda…getting to him. Vaguely making him want to throw up, definitely stirring anxiety until it buzzes somewhere way in the back of his brain. He tells himself not to panic. Panic won’t help, and their situation hasn’t changed. There’s nothing to do but keep enduring.

Ainsley disagrees. “We can’t keep doing this,” she announces. She’s pacing back and forth over the rug, dress rustling. She’s been at it for the past…Malcolm doesn’t know how long, actually. Time is irrelevant.

“Doing what,” he says listlessly. He’s not acting normal. He knows that. But in his defense, he’s been off his meds for…however long now. So.

“Sitting here, just _waiting_ for something to change.”

“We could try the window,” he suggests.

She stops pacing to stare at him. “What?”

“The…the window.” He gestures limply at the curtains. “Maybe we can break it.”

When she responds, her voice is slow and careful. Worried. “We tried that, Malcolm. Remember? There’s nothing heavy enough to break it. Except the couch or bookshelf, I guess, but we can’t move those. Remember?”

He’s not sure why she’s telling him all this; it seems like an unnecessary amount of information. Or maybe it all is important, and he just can’t focus because he’s so much. He’s shivering, a little. Would it be too much to ask for a blanket?

“Malcolm!”

He opens his eyes; he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Ainsley is crouching on the floor so her wide eyes are level with his. “What?”

Her eyes flick over her face. Then she says, very clearly, “You’re not okay.”

“Ha,” he says. “Rude.”

“No, I’m serious.” She reaches out, presses the back of her hand to his cheek, then to his forehead. Exactly like Jessica used to do for them. She gasps. “You’re burning up.”

He half-grinned. “You sayin’ I’m hot?”

“I’m saying you have a _fever!_ ” And with that, she’s tugging at his shirt, trying to get at his cut. He bats at her with his hands, but the motions are feeble, and she easily pulls his shirt up.

She gasps again, turns pale, and then turns a little greenish as she claps a hand over her mouth.

Malcolm decided he really doesn’t want to see what she’s looking at, but at the same time, curiosity is one of his best (worst?) qualities. He sits up a little, craning his neck, and…oh.

Yeah, that’s pretty bad.

The skin around the cut is puffy, swollen, and an angry red, but the worst part is the tiny slit in his skin, which looks kind of like a geode. Sorta crusty on the edges, lined in dark red, and with a pale, yellow-green center.

Ainsley twists up her face, gags, and tugs his shirt back down, like this new crisis will vanish if they can’t see it. Then she sits back on her heels until she stops looking like she’s two seconds from throwing up.

Malcolm feel weirdly embarrassed and also kind of indignant. Like, it’s _his_ injury, why is _she_ grossed out by it?

She doesn’t throw up, though. Or say anything at all. Silence stretches out between them.

Malcolm shifts uncomfortably on the couch. The embarrassment and indignation are making room for a new (no, not new, but intensified) emotion: guilt. “Ains,” he begins awkwardly.

“You have an infection.” Her voice is flat, but her eyes are scared and overwhelmed.

This. This is exactly the expression he didn’t want to see on her face.

“I mean…probably,” he admits.

“ _Probably?_ ”

“I’m not a doctor,” he points out roughly. “Neither are you.”

“Malcolm.” She stares at him.

He stares back, defiant.

“I can’t.” She stands up, starts pacing again. She’s going to wear a hole in the floor.

Malcolm closes his eyes before the repetitive motion can conspire with all his emotions tangled up in his stomach and make him queasy. Queasier. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she demands.

He considers it. “For…getting stabbed.”

“See!” she shouts, so loud and sudden that he opens his eyes to see her pointing at him. “See, _that_ is the problem. You definitely have something to apologize for, but _getting stabbed_ is not it.”

He’s confused. “If I hadn’t gotten stabbed, I wouldn’t have an infection.”

“Did you ask to get stabbed?” she spits out.

“…No.”

“So. Not your fault. You know what is your fault, though?”

He shrugs weakly.

“ _Not telling me_.”

Right. That’s…that’s true. It was his choice. Not exactly a conscious choice, since he didn’t realize he actually had infected. More like an instinctive aversion to telling her anything was wrong with him at all.

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” she demands.

“I…” He can’t explain it. Or, more accurately, he knows there’s no explanation he can give that she’ll accept.

“You’re _dying_ , Malcolm!”

“Ha,” he says weakly. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

“Bit of a—” She slaps his arm.

He blinks in wounded surprise. “Not helpful,” he points out.

“Malcolm, you—” She cuts herself off as her voice cracks.

She’s—oh no, no, no, she’s _crying_. Malcolm is struck by real panic. He struggles to sit up. “Ains, Ains, hey—”

“ _Don’t move._ ” In a flash, she’s sitting on the couch next to him, and her hands are on his chest, stilling him, and her blue eyes are swimming. “How am I supposed to save you now?”

What? _What?_ That’s not her job. Malcolm is so confused, he doesn’t know what to say.

She sniffles pathetically, like she used to when she crept into his room because she had a nightmare and didn’t want to wake up their mother. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at her. “You don’t want me to answer that.”

She waits in silence for a long time. He knows better than to think he’s won the argument, but he thinks they’ve maybe reached a stalemate, which is good. A stalemate means he can rest instead of trying to navigate their conflict.

But then she says, “Are you ever gonna be honest with me?”

He forces his eyes open. “What?”

She draws her legs up onto the couch, wrapping her arms around them and locking her hands together. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

That feels really unfair and, coming from Ainsley, possibly really manipulative.

But.

He can’t say she’s _wrong_.

“I miss you,” she whispers.

He misses her, too.

She bites her lip. “I mean, I know I’ve kept stuff from you too. And I’m sorry. I just always think you’ll try to keep me out of it if it’s dangerous. I’m not wrong about that, am I?”

He shakes his head.

She leans closer. “Malcolm, listen to me. We have to stop protecting each other.”

He shakes his head again. “It’s what we _do_.”

“We have to stop,” she repeats.

“I can’t,” he says tiredly. The world is too dark, too ugly. He has to do whatever he can to keep her out of its reach. And if she hates him for it…so be it.


	7. Chapter 7

Gil

Sitting in his office, Gil spins a pen back and forth between his fingers as he breathes in the fumes of his stale coffee, trying to think, to _focus_. He needs a fresh angle on this case, because his kid’s out there and Gil is nowhere closer to finding him.

And it’s Gil’s fault. He’s been making assumptions. Making assumptions is inevitable, to an extent. Refusing to move forward with any unverified leads is the best way to turn a case cold. Sometimes you just have to form a hunch and run with it.

But you have to hold it loosely between your fingers, unless you want that hunch to call all the shots in your investigation.

Well, Gil’s hunches have been going nowhere. He needs to step back. Reevaluate. Let the evidence speak for itself.

He was assuming, for example, that Ben was targeting Ainsley because he’s obsessed with her—in a positive sense. But like he told Jessica, maybe he’s got that backwards. Maybe Ben sees Ainsley as his enemy.

And he was assuming that Malcolm was collateral damage. That Ainsley was the target, and Malcolm refused to leave her side. But maybe that’s wrong, too. Maybe Malcolm was the target all along. Or _both_ of them were.

Maybe.

What do Ainsley and Malcolm have in common? Well, they’re both Whitlys. Not that that’s public knowledge anymore, of course.

Gil feels his eyes widen.

Unless you start with Jessica.

If you start with Jessica, you’ll know the story. You’ll know about the Surgeon, of course, and you’ll also know that Jessica had two children. A daughter, and also a son. And maybe, if you wanted to find the son, you’d wait until Jessica did something public like her party, and you’d find a way to attend, and you’d see if a man was there named Malcolm.

Gil forces himself to breathe steadily. It _feels_ like ’onto something, but he doesn’t have any real evidence at this point. Just conjecture. Working himself up will help no one, just make it harder for him to think clearly.

Unfortunately, Malcolm’s involvement complicates things. Malcolm has made plenty of enemies from his work with the FBI and the NYPD. Except…if Ben, or whoever the kidnapper was, went after Malcolm for something Malcolm did in his professional capacity, they wouldn’t need to wait for this Jessica’s event because they’d already know Malcolm’s name. And they certainly wouldn’t have any reason to include Ainsley in their plans. Would Ainsley stick by Malcolm’s side, even if she wasn’t the target? Maybe. But she strikes Gil as smarter than that. More tactical, more calculating. Wouldn’t she realize she could help Malcolm more by staying out of it so she could tell Gil what happened?

All of that leads Gil to believe that it isn’t irrational to move forward assuming that Malcolm and Ainsley had _both_ been the target. And what do they have in common?

Well.

“JT!” Gil shouts.

A couple seconds later, JT bursts into the office. “What is it?”

“I need you to find out any and all connections Ben Wright has to the Surgeon.”

If JT is thrown by this new line of investigation, he doesn’t show it, just nods crisply. “You got it, Boss.” He’s gone in a flash, off to dig up what research he can.

Gil makes a point of hunting down Dani himself. He finds her in the conference room, slouched at the table with her hair frizzier than normal, like she’s been dragging her fingers through it. She’s sorting through what looks like printouts of Ben Wright’s social media. He puts his hand on her shoulder, and she jumps.

“Sorry,” Gil says softly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.” Her voice is strained. She swivels her chair dejectedly away from the table. “Not like I’m making any progress here anyway.”

“Well, I have a new theory. I think we’ve been going at this wrong. I think Ben wants Malcolm _and_ Ainsley, and I think it’s because of the Surgeon.”

Her eyes widen. “You think he knows Malcolm’s identity?”

“It’s possible. If he started with the Surgeon and Jessica, he’d know there are two Whitly children. I have JT looking for connections now.”

“Wait,” Dani breathes, spinning back to the social media printouts. “Ben had a son.”

“Yeah,” Gil says automatically. “Killed in a—oh.”

“Homicide,” she finishes grimly. “Case unsolved, right? But what if it was _the Surgeon?_ ”

Gil frowns. “But it was unsolved. Even if it was the Surgeon, there’s no way for Ben to know.”

Dani rolls her eyes at him, actually rolls her eyes. “Does it matter? The man lost his son, the case was never solved. He needs closure, Gil. And then word gets out that there’s this criminal mastermind serial killer responsible for killing twenty-three people— _that we know of_. If you’re a grieving father desperate for closure, wouldn’t there be a part of you that almost _wants_ the Surgeon to be responsible? Because then at least he’d be behind bars.”

“Then why’s he going after Malcolm and Ainsley, if he has closure?”

Dani’s eyes narrow. “He _had_ closure. Until Jessica Whitly started going public, and Ainsley started getting famous. And now all of a sudden, the Whitlys are all anyone’s talking about. It’s digging up all the old wounds again.”

Gil rubs at the back of his neck. “Damn. You sound like Malcolm.”

“Yeah, well, I guess he’s been rubbing off on me.” She suddenly cringes, and if Gil’s not mistaken, she’s possibly blushing just a little. “ _Not_ like that, I mean—I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Gil assures her, even while part of his detective brain sits up and takes notice at her very out-of-character behavior. Gil isn’t a psychologist, but he knows what a Freudian slip is. “What you’re saying is, it doesn’t matter whether the Surgeon actually killed Ben’s son. All that matters is that Ben _thinks_ the Surgeon did it.”

“And he’s taking it out on Malcolm and Ainsley.”

“Not on Jessica?”

“Going after Malcolm and Ainsley _is_ taking it out on Jessica.”

That’s definitely true. Gil nod grimly. “Okay, well, we need to see if this angle turns up any new leads. If this is all in memory of his son—”

“Hold up.” Dani starts rifling through the printouts again. “Here—Gil, look at this.” She pulls out a sheet of paper with a picture and a caption. The picture’s of a classic suburban home tucked away in a neighborhood. It was fall when the picture was taken, and brilliant red-and-gold leaves dust the ground. Gil’s seen too much of life to believe in fairytales or anything, but this house looks like something straight out of a storybook. Dani shakes the picture, making the page flutter. “Just seven months ago, he bought his son’s old house. Do you think…”

Gil fights back his initial wave of relief. Nothing’s guaranteed yet, this might mean nothing. But it’s a start. It’s a _lead_. “Come with me. We’ll check it out.”

~

Malcolm

“Malcolm? Malcolm, wake up.”

He drags his eyes open, and blinks in confusion at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. Where is he? He tries to move his hands, and accidentally hits himself in the face. He’s not chained down.

He’s not home.

“Malcolm!” Ainsley’s face swims into focus above him. She’s kneeling on the couch, one hand on his chest, the other cupping his face.

“Hey,” he answers groggily. He’s so tired, it’s an effort not to be mad at her for waking him up.

“Malcolm.” Her voice is terrified, and the more he focuses, the more he’s afraid she has tears in her eyes. “You’re _dying_.”

Well, _that_ doesn’t sound right. He forces himself into a mostly-upright position. “I’m not—”

“ _Look_.” She hitches up his shirt.

He sits all the way up, and his heart drops into his stomach. There are angry red streaks around his knife-wound. He’s no doctor, but he knows blood poisoning when he sees it.

She’s right. He’s dying. Not in a matter of weeks or days, either—it’s a matter of _hours_.

“Um,” he says stupidly.

Her tear-filled eyes search his. “What do we do?”

Why is she asking _him?_ He has no idea.

“Malcolm, what do we do?”

“I dunno,” he mumbles, closing his eyes again. They’re dry and stinging, and it’s too much work to hold them open.

“Hey! No!” She slaps his cheek. Lightly, but still.

“Hey,” he protests, although his voice is so pathetic in his own ears that he’s almost embarrassed to be making any noise at all.

“Stay with me. Look at me, okay?”

“Ains, I’m fine…” Maybe she’ll believe him if he just says it enough times.

“You have _blood poisoning_.”

Nope. She’s too smart for her own good, his Ainsley. “Oh, that.”

“I can’t…” She sits back a little, twisting her fingers in the skirt of her dress. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he tries to assure her. None of this is her fault, and he doesn’t want her feeling guilty if…if…if….

He’s spared from finishing that thought by the creak of the door opening. Ainsley whirls around; he turns his head more slowly.

Ben’s standing in the threshold, a gun held loosely in his right hand and a crease between his eyebrows as he takes in the scene.

Ainsley shoots to her feet. “Ben, we need to go to a hospital.”

He gives her a bored look. “Why’s that?”

“My brother is _dying_.”

Ben looks confused for a second. Then his expression clears. “Oh, right. The stab wound, right? He’ll be fine.”

Ainsley’s face is white. “He has _blood poisoning_.”

Ben blinks. “What?”

“S’true,” Malcolm slurs, trying to assist Ainsley in the argument.

“He has _hours_ , Ben.” Ainsley’s voice is thick with fear and anger and _grief_ , but she’s still fighting for him. She steps closer to Ben. “Where even are we?”

Ben’s eyes flick between her and Malcolm. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“The hell does that mean?” Ainsley shouts. “ _You_ stabbed him!”

“You’re not supposed to die so soon.” Ben shoves past Ainsley and, before Malcolm can do anything, grabs Malcolm by the collar of his shirt. “You’re supposed to live long enough to _suffer!_ ”

The movement lights fire all through Malcolm’s inside. He gags. “What…what d’you think I’ve been _doing_ …”

“Shut up!” Ben tosses Malcolm aside like a rag doll. Malcolm hits the floor and curls protectively over his injury. “Shut up!” Ben yells again, even though no one has said anything, a fact Malcolm would point out if he was confident he’d be able to speak without throwing up.

Ainsley takes a shaky breath. “Ben, if you—if you want him to live long enough to s-suffer, you have to take him to a hospital.”

“Why?” Ben snarls as he turns on her, brandishing the gun. “So you can contact that cop who’s been harassing my wife? Is that it?”

“Gil,” Malcolm breathes.

“Shut up!” Ben shrieks at him, whirling back around. “Shut— _up!_ ” Ben kicks Malcolm for emphasis. Hard. Right over his infection.

Malcolm gasps and the whole world flashes white.

Ben kicks him again.

“Stop it!” Ainsley screams. “Stop it!”

Ben waves the gun at her, but he’s more interested in kicking Malcolm than using it. Dark spots dance across Malcolm’s vision, slowly eating away at more and more of it as pain rocks through him, becomes such a permanent part of him that he feels it even when Ben’s foot isn’t slamming into him. Blood is running down his stomach.

It’s all Malcolm can do to hold onto consciousness, to not pass out, because if he passes out he might die, and he does _not_ want this to be the last thing he remembers. So he forces his eyes to stay open, locking onto Ben’s, hoping for some hint of regret, of doubt. But no, the man’s high on fury and adrenaline and Malcolm realizes very suddenly that he’s not going to stop.

Until Ainsley grabs for the gun.

His wrist, actually, it looks like. Ben squeezes the trigger in shock and a bullet lodges in the floor only a few feet away from Malcolm’s face. Ainsley’s wrestling for the weapon, and Malcolm has to do _something_ , he can’t just _lie_ there, so he kicks out weakly at Ben’s knee. Impossible to tell if he actually does any damage or if he just manages to distract him, but either way, Ainsley rips the gun free.

Ben freezes. Except for his hands, which inch up towards his head.

Ainsley’s gasping for breath as she aims the gun at Ben’s chest, but Malcolm notices with odd clarity that her hands aren’t trembling like he’d expect. She holds the gun with both hands like it’s an extension of her.

Malcolm breathes out slowly. “Okay, um, everybody just—”

“ _Shh_ ,” Ainsley hisses, eyes fixed on Ben, who’s staring back at her, wide-eyed. Predator and prey, neither daring to look away.

Malcolm’s heart starts beating even faster. “Ains—”

She ignores him. “Step away from him.”

Ben takes a step back, moving jerkily.

Ainsley bites her lip. “Farther.”

Ben moves again, stiffly, eyes never leaving hers.

Malcolm tries to sit up, but he can’t. He literally can’t.

Ainsley takes a deep breath, lowers the gun slightly, and fires.

The bullet blasts through Ben just above his hip. Blood blossoms like a blooming rose as Ben screeches in agony, dropping to his knees and then all the way to the floor, hands pressed to the wound.

“Ainsley!” Malcolm shouts. He lurches forward, drags himself towards Ben.

But Ainsley grabs at him. “No, we gotta go, we gotta—”

“What did you _do?_ ” He rips free of her grasp with mor strength than he thought he had and presses his hands to Ben’s wound. The blood is everywhere: running down Ben’s body, pooling on the floor, hot and slick between his fingers. Ben moans, eyes rolling back in his head.

Ainsley drops the gun. “I—I—I—”

“What the hell!” He presses harder on the wound, squeezing his eyes shut as more blood sluices out. He’s never been squeamish. He’s watched snakes literally crawl out of a _corpse’s mouth_ , and it didn’t get to him.

This, though. The hole he can feel under his hands.

Because his little baby sister did it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

But she’s not. “Give me something,” he says urgently, waving one hand in the air and scattering scarlet droplets everywhere. “Something to stop the bleeding.”

Biting her lip, she rips at the hem of her dress. The tearing noise seems unreasonably loud in Malcolm’s ringing ears. She passes the fabric over, and he balls it up and holds it against the wound.

Ben’s blood is the same color as the fabric.

Malcolm blinks away the stars in his vision. It’s fine, this is fine. Ainsley was just trying to protect them. She’s not a killer, she’s _not_ , because Ben’s not going to _die_. Malcolm won’t let that happen.

Ainsley kneels next to him, placing her hand on his arm. “Mal, we gotta go.”

Malcolm grits his teeth. “Not until we know he’s okay.”

She curls her fingers into his sleeve. “We gotta get out of here. You need a _hospital_.”

“I’m not letting him die!” He can’t let her be a murderer. He can’t.

“Malcolm—”

“Shut up!” He can’t argue with her, he can’t even _think_ , and why can’t she see how important this is? If she won’t help keep Ben from dying, she can at least…he shakes his head, turns to verify that the door’s open. “Ainsley,” he says. “I need you to go hide the gun.”

She gapes at him what?”

“ _Hide it_ ,” he orders, voice slurring a little. “And wipe your fingerprints off it.”

He almost cries in relief when she obeys without arguing. Maybe she’s finally realizing how serious this is. Maybe. In the meantime, he has to focus on Ben. He pushes harder, with all the body weight he can muster, but he’s so tired. His arms are trembling.

He can’t keep this up.

Ben’s gonna die.

Malcolm blinks back tears. They don’t have _time_ for crying. It’s just…it’s Ainsley, he can’t let her be like Martin, he can’t let that _happen_.

He blinks, and suddenly Ainsley’s back, kneeling next to him, close enough that their arms and shoulders brush. He’s cold, but she’s warm. Her hands settle over his, pressing down on the wound to staunch the flow of blood, lending strength that he doesn’t have as together they fight to keep Ben alive.


	8. Chapter 8

Gil

Dani’s knee vibrates nonstop during the drive, even though Gil doesn’t exactly stick to the speed limit. He drives out of the city and into the twisty lanes of suburban New York, ignoring the offended looks from the civilians they swerve around or speed past.

“We’ll find them,” Gil tells Dani, yet again.

Her eyes are fixed on the road. “You don’t know that.”

“We’ll find them,” he repeats. Because it has to be true. He glances at his phone propped on the dashboard, turns left according to the instructions of the GPS.

The neighborhood is gated. Gil called ahead for the code and punches it in as fast as he can, but Dani still looks like she’s two seconds from jumping out of the car and climbing the fence. The light on the keypad blinks green, but the gates couldn’t possibly drag open more slowly.

“I can’t,” Dani starts mumbling under her breath. “I can’t.”

Gil hardens his voice. “Pull yourself together, Powell.”

Her head snaps up; her eyes flash fire at him.

Good. She needs a little fire. Gil doesn’t care if it’s direct at him for now; it’ll be directed at Ben soon enough.

They pull past the gate, and pass house after house until finally, there it is. Ben’s son’s home. It looks completely ordinary from the outside, just your typical two-story home for your typical middle-class family, and Gil’s heart sinks.

He stops in the driveway, though. Dani’s instantly out of the car. He has to jog a little to catch up, to join her on the porch when she bangs her fist on the door. “NYPD!” she shouts. “Open up!”

Gil strains his ears. They don’t have a warrant (the judge refused _again_ ), but if he hears suspicious activity inside, he can break in and not risk losing his badge. He can make an argument, at least.

Dani bangs on the door again. “NYPD! Open the door!”

Still. Nothing.

Wait. Footsteps? Footsteps running towards them, as if down a hall. Gil and Dani both take a step back, simultaneously drawing their weapons.

A lock clicks and the door is jerked open and there’s Ainsley standing in front of them, wide-eyed, blood smeared on her face and dripping from her hands, mascara under her eyes, dress ripped at the hem.

Blood. _Blood._ “Where’s Malcolm?” Gil demands.

Ainsley stumbles backward. “He’s back here, he needs help. We need an ambulance.”

Ambulance. Gil goes cold. He pushes past her, running down the hall.

“Two ambulances,” Ainsley corrects herself, hurrying to keep pace, and she’s acting…weird, but it only registers distantly, because who _wouldn’t_ be acting weird after what she’s been through, and besides, Gil is infinitely more worried about Malcolm.

He finds the right door immediately. It’s got two extra locks, even though it’s currently hanging open. He bursts into the room, and there’s Malcolm on the floor, slumped over an unconscious man. They’re both covered in blood.

Malcolm lifts his head, sweaty hair falling in his face, blue eyes glazed. “Hey…”

Gil and Dani reach him at the exact same time, shifting him away from the man underneath. Gil wants to do nothing but focus one hundred percent of his attention on his kid, but Dani’s already running her hands over Malcolm’s body with single-minded focus, so Gil forces himself to be responsible and turn to the man.

It’s Ben. And…and he looks like he’s been _shot_.

With one hand, Gil presses down on the makeshift bandage—a strip of Ainsley’s dress, now soaked through with blood—and with the other, he checks Ben’s pulse. Slow and whispery, but there. He gets out his phone, punches in nine-one-one because Dani looks cold and scared as she peels back Malcolm’s shirt.

Suddenly, Gil feels just like she looks. His kid’s got blood poisoning.

 _“Nine-one-one,”_ says the voice in his ear, calm and pleasant. _“What is your emergency?”_

~

Malcolm

The hospital room is so sterile. That’s the first thing Malcolm notices when he wakes up. It’s just him in a bed under stiff sheets, hooked up to wires and machines. His heart monitor beeps slowly. There’s a window, but it’s closed. So’s the door. He tries not to feel panicked. For one stupid second, he almost misses the living room where they were trapped. It was their prison, sure, but it felt…lived-in. He and Ainsley, cuddled up on the couch together…they haven’t been together like that since they were kids.

He’s being stupid. They were kidnapped. And he was dying. So obviously he should be in a hospital, not longing for the place where they were held hostage. What, does he have some kind of Stockholm syndrome for a _room?_ Ridiculous.

(He makes a mental note to talk to Gabrielle about that the next time he sees her.)

(Which will be soon, he hopes.)

He’s sick and exhausted, but he’s still struggling to sit up when a nurse comes in, all professionalism and no-nonsense. She sets her hand on his chest and eases him back onto the pillows.

“Don’t try to move, Mr. Bright,” she says sternly. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“Where’s…” He tries to look over her shoulder where she left the door open. “Where’s Ainsley?”

“Is Ainsley one of the swarm of people waiting for you in the lobby?” the nurse asks dryly. “If so, she’s waiting for you in the lobby.”

That’s not good enough. He needs to see her, he needs to know she’s okay. Not hurt or missing or _arrested_ or— “Can I talk to her?” he blurts out.

“I think there’s someone else who wants to talk to you first, once I give the all-clear.” She consults the machines and his chart and makes a couple of notes.

Malcolm’s first irrational response is fear. Like somehow it’s Ben who set this whole thing up, it’s Ben who’s about to walk through the door. But he shoves the fear down. He’s _safe_. He has to be. Right?

His heart monitor is beeping faster, proof that he’s not convinced by his own arguments.

The nurse smiles at him. It doesn’t reach her eyes, though. She’s just a professional. She pats his arm. “I’ll send him right in.”

“Wait,” Malcolm rasps out. “Who—”

Too late. The nurse has swept out the door.

Malcolm glances around. There’s not much here in the way of weapons. Except for the needle stuck in his arm, of course. It’s probably important. He probably shouldn’t touch it.

But, like, if he’s gonna die either way—

Gritting his teeth, he looks away and tugs the needle out. A warm trickle of blood runs down his arm. Beeping swells from the machine, and the nurse rushes back in. On her heels is Gil.

Oh. Gil.

Malcolm drops the needle.

“What were you _thinking?_ ” the nurse demands, plucking up the needle and sterilizing it again.

“Sorry,” Malcolm mumbles, face going hot. But Gil doesn’t look irritated. He looks all too sympathetic, like he knows _exactly_ what Malcolm was thinking. It makes Malcolm feel a bit uncomfortable. He’d rather be reading someone else, not the other way around.

The nurse reinserts the needle, huffing at him, and leaves with a warning that he _not touch anything_. Gil, meanwhile, sits on the edge of the right side of the bed and just…looks at him, like he can’t look away.

Malcolm’s arm stings from ripping out the needle. “Hey,” he says quietly.

Gil’s still looking at him. Staring, like if he blinks, Malcolm will disappear. “Hey, kid.”

“Is Ainsley okay?”

“She’s fine. She wasn’t hurt.”

That’s not what Malcolm is asking. “I mean, is…is…” He can’t figure out how to word the question without incriminating her. “Where is she?”

Gil points his thumb over his shoulder. “Lobby. Waiting for the chance to see you. You really scared her.”

Well, she really scared him. He’s _still_ scared. Scared someone will find out what she did, and scared of what he saw in her.

“Ben’s in custody,” Gil goes on. “Lawyered up already. He’ll have to take a plea, though. The evidence is too damning.” Gil squints at him a little. “Don’t worry, kid, he’ll be going away for a long time.”

That’s not what Malcolm’s worried about, but he nods anyway and pretends to be reassured.

Gil shifts his weight. “So, I need to ask you a couple questions.”

Malcolm nods quickly. He can do this. He can do this.

“How exactly did you end up in that room?”

Malcolm rubs at his forehead, over a growing ache. “I don’t remember. I was unconscious. Last thing I remember is the party. The lights went out. I saw Ben, though, coming at me. He stabbed me, then hit my head. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in that room.”

Gil jots a few notes. “Right. With Ainsley?”

Malcolm swallows. “…Yeah.”

“Was she injured when you were brought in?”

Malcolm shakes his head.

“Did Ben do anything to you—either of you—while you were there?”

Malcolm shakes his head again.

Gil nods, and writes another note. Then he seems to brace himself. “How did Ben come to be shot? Do you know where the gun is?”

That means they haven’t found it yet. Malcolm doesn’t know where Ainsley hid it, and he can’t decide if he should ask.

Gil’s eyes narrow. “Kid?”

Malcolm closes his eyes. “I plead the fifth.”

“…Excuse me?” Gil’s voice is shocked.

Eyes still closed, Malcolm lowers his head. “I’m sorry, Gil.”

“You’re—kid, you’re not under arrest. Just tell me.”

Malcolm shakes his head. “I can’t,” he whispers.

Silence.

He risks opening his eyes, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Gil looks…betrayed. And hurt. And guilty, like he’s wondering what he did to make Malcolm lose faith in him.

“It’s not…” Malcolm searches for words. “It’s not you, Gil. It’s not your fault.”

“Then why can’t you tell me?

He closes his eyes again so he doesn’t have to look at him. “I just can’t. I’m…I’m sorry.”

Gil sighs. “Don’t be sorry, kid. I’m just glad you’re okay.” His chair creaks; Malcolm cracks his eyes open again to see Gil leaning back, looking towards the door. “And I’m not the only one.”

The door opens. Jessica and Ainsley are on the other side, peering in with wide eyes. They step in, Ainsley trailing behind Jessica. Jessica’s feet hurry towards the bed like she can’t wait a second longer, and she stops next to Gil, her hands cupping Malcolm’s face.

“You’re all right,” she breathes.

Malcolm grins tiredly. “One hundred percent.”

Gil snorts, and Jessica just laughs and shakes her head, her hands sliding down Malcolm’s face, down his arms, avoiding the needle stuck there, to hold his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm whispers.

She squeezes his hands. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His eyes automatically dart up to Ainsley, who’s standing off to the side on the left side of the bed. She looks…dull, now that she knows he’s okay. Their gazes meet, and hers is almost lifeless before it flick away.

Malcolm swallows hard, the realization that he’s right to be worried about her settling like a rock in his gut. But there’s nothing he can do or say now, not in front of Gil and Jessica.

He has to keep protecting her. That’s just…what they do.

At that moment, someone nudges the door open a little wider. Malcolm tenses, and then relaxes, and then tenses up again. Because it’s Dani.

She steps into the room, and he’s confused to see that she’s not wearing a badge. She’s wearing jeans and a dark green blouse and her leather jacket, just like she would at the office. But she’s not wearing her badge.

Jessica’s the first to turn, following Malcolm’s gaze. She frowns, quizzical. Gil looks next, and when Malcolm shoots a glance at him, he’s not sure what to make of the fact that Gil looks strangely… _knowing_. And then there’s Ainsley, finally turning around. Her eyes light up when she sees Dani, replacing that dead look in her eyes with something that’s excited and mischievous and soft all at the same time.

Malcolm’s heart starts beating faster, and he curses the stupid heart monitor for advertising that fact to literally everyone in the room. He flushes, and Dani’s lips curve upward as she slowly approaches the bed.

“Hey,” he says, sounding more or less like a strangled cat.

“Hey.” Her voice, on the other hand, is even and smooth as honey. “How’re you feeling?”

“Oh, you know.” He tries to sound casual. “Like I got stabbed.”

“Same old, then?” She comes around to the left side of the bed and sits. He’s sandwiched between all of them, Gil and Jessica and Ainsley and Dani. Dani’s not sitting on the edge, though, like Gil. She’s close enough that he can feel the warmth of her through the bedsheets. Her eyes hold Malcolm’s, searing into him. “I was so worried, Malcolm.”

“…Sorry about that,” he says weakly.

“But you’re okay.” Her eyes flit over his face, his body, like she has to know for sure. Then her eyes meet his again, full of emotion that he, for all his training, can’t quite read. “The doctors say you’re okay.”

His throat is dry. He nods. He kind of wishes Gil or Jessica or Ainsley would say something. But they don’t.

“Malcolm…” Dani stops, then starts again. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he manages.

“If…if…” She stops again, and blinks, and glances up at the ceiling. “If you’d died, you would’ve thought I…you would’ve thought I don’t want people to know.”

 _To know._ His heart beats faster, and the traitorous machine feels like it’s beeping _louder_ , and Malcolm kind of wants to die, but not until he hears what point Dani’s trying so hard to make.

She’s still staring up at the ceiling. “And that’s not fair. Because it’s not _true_. I want everyone to know, I just…I just…I’m just bad at this, you know?” Her eyes drop down to meet his once more. “But I’m trying. I promise, I’m trying.”

He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything in response, she’s leaning in and pressing her lips to his, soft and sweet but with a hint of fire that makes him shiver.

The heart monitor beeps so fast and so loud that two nurses and a doctor all come rushing in. They laugh at the sight, and Dani pulls back, biting her lip and standing up quickly, brushing nonexistent dirt off her pants as the nurses and doctors file back out the door.

“Um, anyway,” Dani says, shooting a look at Gil, who’s raising his eyebrows with a pleased expression on his face.

A sudden clapping sound makes Malcolm jump, but it’s just Ainsley, giggling as she claps. “ _Finally_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes at Dani.

“Um,” Dani says, stepping away from the bed with her hand in her back pockets. “So, yeah, I just wanted to…make that clear…”

“ _Very_ clear,” Ainsley comments, smirking.

“Hush,” Jessica says, covering her own mouth but unable to conceal her giant smile.

“Well,” Dani says, then shakes her head. “Malcolm, I’ll text you, okay?”

He nods eagerly. Maybe too eagerly. Except not, because he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. A thrill of pride surges through him even as Dani escapes out the door.

Jessica kind of flaps her hands around. “Oh, this is so perfect! Dani’s such a sweet girl, and so mature, and she already knows how to take care of you—”

“Mother,” Malcolm protests.

Gil pats Malcolm’s knee. “Nice one, kid. I’ll help you fill out the paperwork.”

Ugh. Malcolm makes a face. It’ll be worth it, though, even if his hand aches from filling out forms.

Ainsley tilts her head at him. Her expression is no longer full of delight, but she doesn’t have that dull look in her eyes, either. It’s somewhere in-between. “Now that you’re not dying, we need to talk. For real. Because I expect to hear all the details of how that started.”

He just nods. They do need to talk. Not just about Dani, and not even just about what Ainsley did to Ben. He needs to tell her why he pulled away from her so long ago. He needs to tell her about the guilt clawing at his chest, about how sometimes he looked at her and all her young, innocent joy, and she was like an oasis. He could pretend that none of the bad stuff happened. How he didn’t want to tell her about any of it, because what if she lost that joy, and he lost that oasis?

But she’s grown up now, and she’s seen her share of evil in the world. She’s perpetuated her share, too. He’ll still protect her, but he can’t protect her from everything. He just can’t.

All he can do is make sure that, whatever they face, they face it together.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never done a bang before. This was a fun challenge!  
> Comments are welcome - they're like chocolate. <3


End file.
